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mil ssEEifBias iiiii 

SCHOOL OF EDUCATION 
LIBRARY 



TEXTBOOK COLLECTION 

GIFT OF 

THE PUBLISHERS 



STANFORD N^p/ UNIVERSITY 
LIBRARIES 



Fhe reUU price of till* book u | . 



SCHOOL READING BY GRADES 



FOURTH YEAR 



JAMES BALDWIN 




HEW YORK.;. CINCINNATI. ^.CHICAGO 
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 

DEPAETMENT OF EDnOATIOH 
lELAS D STAHFOED JCSIOE OTrjIS:, 



LIBRARY OF THE 
LELAND STANFORD JR. UNIVERSITY. 

OOPTKIGHT, 1897, BY 

AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY. 



80H. READ. FOURTH YEAR. 
W. P. 3 

c 



PREFACE. 



The paramount object of this book, no less than of the lower numbers 
of the series, is to help the pupil to become a good reader. To be a good 
reader, one must not only be able to pronounce all the words in a given 
lesson, but he must have so thorough an understanding of the selection 
to be read that he involuntarily makes the thoughts and feelings of the 
author his own. An exercise in reading should, therefore, always be a 
pleasure to thosawho participate in it. It should never in any sense be 
regarded as a task. Children who like to read are pretty sure to become 
good readers; and the easiest way to teach reading is to make every 
recitation full of interest and a source of delight. But this is not all. 
Careless habits must be avoided. Distinct enunciation and correct pro- 
nunciation must be insisted upon and secured. It is not enough that the 
reader himself understands and is interested. He must make his hearers 
understand also, and that without effort, and he must give them such 
pleasure that they shall not soon become weary of listening to him. 

The lessons in this volume have been prepared and arranged with a 
view towards several ends : to interest the young reader ; to cultivate a 
taste for the best style of literature as regards both thought and expres- 
sion ; to point the way to an acquaintance with good books ; to appeal to 
the pupil's sense of duty, and strengthen his desire to do right ; to arouse 
patriotic feelings and a just pride in the achievements of our country- 
men ; and incidentally to add somewhat to the learner's knowledge of 
history and science and art. 

The illustrations will prove to be valuable adjuncts to the text. Spell- 
ing, defining, and punctuation should receive special attention. Difficult 
words and idiomatic expressions should be carefully studied with the aid 
of the Word List at the end of the volume. Persistent and systematic 
practice in the pronunciation of these words and of other difficult com- 
binations of sounds will aid in training the pupils' voices to habits of 
careful articulation and correct enunciation. 

While literary biography can be of but little, if any, value in culti- 
vating literary taste, it is desirable that pupils should acquire some slight 
knowledge of the writers whose productions are placed before them for 
study. To assist in the acquisition of this knowledge, and also to serve 
for ready reference, a few pages of Biographical Notes are inserted 
towards the end of the volume. The brief rules given on page 6 should 
be learned at the beginning, and carefully and constantly observed. 



CONTENTS. 



▲OAPTED FROM PAOB 

Daniel Webster's First Speech 7 

Bisons and Buffaloes 12 

Fortune and the Beggar Ivan Kriloff 19 

The Piper's Song William Blake ... 22 

Two Surprises 23 

Freaks of the Frost Hannah F. Gould . . 25 

Going East by sailing West 26 

Daybreak Henry W. Longfellow . 44 

Turtles on the Amazon Mayne Reid .... 45 

How the Thrushes crossed the Sea . . Henry C, McCook . . 49 

TheHaymakers— Old Style 65 

The Haymakers — New Style 58 

The Reaper and the Flowers .... Henry W. Longfellow . 62 

The Day is done Henry W. Longfellow 65 

The Declaration of Independence 67 

Little Jean FranQoise Coppee ... 74 

Henry's Breakfast 81 

Woodman, spare that Tree George P. Morris ... 87 

A Leap for Life George P. Morris ... 88 

The Stagecoach Thomas Hughes ... 90 

The English Slave Boys in Rome . . . Edward A. Freeman . 96 

The Uprising — 1775 Thomas Buchanan Read 101 

Sif's Golden Hair From ''The Story of Siegfried'' 105 

The Meeting of the Ships Thomas Moore . . . 120 

Those Evening Bells Thomas Moore . . . 121 

Searching for Gold and finding a River 122 

Beavers at Home William Bingley . . . 128 

4 



ADAPTED FROM PAGV 

The Iron Horse From"' The Horse Fair '' 132 

Little Bell Thomas Westwood . . 136 

The Little Man 139 

Our Country 144 

Something about Cotton 145 

Maggie TuUiver and the Gypsies . . . George Eliot .... 149 

The Fairies of the Caldon Low .... Mary Howitt .... 163 

The Good Samaritan 167 

The Concord Hymn Balph Waldo Emerson . 168 

The Two Offas Edward A. Freeman . . 169 

The Star- Spangled Banner Francis Scott Knj . . 176 

America Samuel F. Smith . . . 178 

The Prodigal Son From " The Gospel of St. Luke'' 179 

How Duke William made Himself King . Charles Dickens ... 181 

Biographical Notes 193 

Word List 196 

Feopbr Names Pronounced 208 



The publishers desire to acknowledge their obligations to the per- 
sons named below for their generous permission to use selections from 
their copyright works in this volume: The Century Company, for the 
extract from '*The Horse Fair"; Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., for 
the selections from Henry W. Longfellow and Ralph Waldo Emerson ; 
The J. B. Lippincott Company, for the poem by Thomas Buchanan 
Read ; Dr. Henry C. McCook, for the story of which he is the author ; 
and Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, for the selection from **The Story 
of Siegfried." 



TO THE YOUNG LEARNER. 



To be able to read well, there are several simple rules which you should 
remember and try to observe : — 

Before attempting to read any selection aloud, read it to yourself in order 

that you may acquaint yourself with its difficulties. 
If there is any part of it that you do not comprehend, read it again and 

try to get at its meaning. 
Study to understand every peculiar expression and every difficult word. 
From the Word List at the end of this volume, or from a dictionary, learn 

the meaning of every difficult word. 
Practice reading aloud to yourself at home. 
Try to discover and correct your own faults. 
Be sure to pronounce, clearly and properly, every syllable and every 

word. 
If any combination of sounds is hard to articulate, practice pronounc- 
ing it until you can speak it properly and witliout effort. 
In reading aloud try to read in the same natural tones that you use in 

talking. Be careful to avoid all strained, harsh, or discordant tones. 
Remember that good reading is only conversation from the book, and 

that it should always give pleasure to both the reader and his hearers. 
Avoid all careless habits of expression. 
It will be easier to read well if you sit or stand with your head erect and 

your shoulders thrown well back ; then you can breathe easily, 

freely, and naturally, and it will not be hard to speak each word 

clearly and properly. 
Try so to render each thought or passage as to interpret, in the most 

natural and forcible manner, the meaning intended by the author. 
Study to appreciate the beauty, the truthfulness, the appropriateness of 

that which you are reading. 
Ask yourself constantly : "Am I reading this so well that my hearers are 

pleased and interested ? '' 
Try to improve every day. 



SCHOOL READiisra 



FOURTH YEAR. 



-«>oX>»o<»- 



DANIEL WEBSTER'S FIRST SPEECH. 

On a farm among the hills of New Hampshire, 

there once lived a little boy whose name was Daniel 

Webster. He was a tiny fellow, with jet-black hair 

and eyes so dark and wonderful that nobody who 

5 once saw them could ever forget them. 

He was not strong enough to help much on the 

farm ; and so he spent much of his time in playing 

in the woods and learning to know and love the 

trees and flowers, and the harmless wild creatures 

10 that lived among them. 

But he did not play all the time. Long before 
he was old enough to go to school, he learned to 
read; and he read so well that everybody was 
pleased, and no one grew tired of listening to him. 
16 The neighbors, when driving past his father's 
house, would stop their horses in the road, and call 
for Dannie Webster to come out and read to them. 
At that time there were no children's books, such 

7 



as you have now; and there were but very few 
books of any kind in the homes of the New Hamp- 
shire farmers. But Daniel read such books as he 
could get; and he read them over and over again 
till he knew all that was in them. In this way he b 
learned a great deal of the Bible so well that he 
could repeat verse after verse without making a mis- 
take; and these he remembered as long as he lived. 

Daniel's father was not only a farmer, but be was 
a judge in the county court. He had great love for lo 
the law, and he hoped that Daniel when he became 
a man would be a lawyer. 

It happened one summer that a woodchuck made 
its burrow in the side of a hill 
not far from Mr, Webster's house, is 
On warm, dark nights it would 
■■^■r--^^-- v^e—? come down into the garden and 

'" ~ ' '■ eat the tender leaves of the cab- 

bages and other plants that were growing there. 
Nobody knew how much harm it might do in 20 
the end. 

Daniel and his brother Ezekiel made up their 
minds to catch the little thief; but for a long time 
it was too cunning for them. At last they built a 
strong trap where the woodchuck would be sure to 2b 
walk into it; and the next morning there he was. 
^" "Here he is at last ! " cried Ezekiel. "Now, Mr. 




9 

Woodchuck, you've done mischief enough, and I'm 
going to kill you." 

But Daniel took pity on the poor beast. "No, 
don't hurt him," he said. " Let us carry him over 
6 the hills far into the woods, and let him go." 

Ezekiel had not so tender a heart as his brother. 
He was bent on killing the woodchuck, and laughed 
at the thought of letting it go. 

"Let us ask father about it," said Daniel. 

10 And so they carried the trap, with the woodchuck 

in it, to their father, and asked what they should do. 

" Well, boys," said Mr. Webster, " we will settle 

the question in this way. We will hold a court 

right here. I will be the judge and you shall be the 

16 lawyers ; and you shall each plead your case for or 

against the prisoner." 

Ezekiel opened the case. He told about the mis- 
chief which the prisoner had done, and showed that 
all woodchucks are very bad creatures and can not be 
20 trusted. He said that a great deal of time and labor 
had been spent in catching this thief, and that if 
they should set him free he would be a worse thief 
than before, and too cunning to be caught again. 
He then went on to say that the woodchuck's skin 
25 was worth a few cents ; but that, to make the most 
of it, it could not be sold for half enough to pay for 
the cabbage that had been eaten. "And so," he 



10 

said, " since this creature is only a thief and of more 
value dead than alive, he ought to be put out of the 
way at once." 

Ezekiel's speech was a good one, and it pleased his 
father very much. What he had said was true and i 
to the point, and the judge could not think how 
Daniel was going to make any answer to it. 



Daniel began to plsad for the life of ths poor aninial. 

But Daniel looked up into the judge's face, and be- 
gan to plead for the life of the poor animal. He said : 

" God made the woodehuck. He made him to live n 
in the bright sunlight and the pure air ; to enjoy the 
free fields and the green woods. The woodehuck 
has as much right to life as any other living thing; 
for God gave it to him. 



11 

" God gives us our food. He gives us all that we 
have ; and shall we not spare a little dumb creature 
that has as much right to his share of God's gifts as 
we have to ours ? Yes, more ; the woodchuck has 

6 never broken the laws of his nature or the laws of 
God, as man often does. 

" He is not a fierce animal like the wolf or the fox. 
He lives in quiet and peace ; a hole in the side of a 
hill, with a little food, is all that he wants. He has 

10 harmed nothing but a few plants which he ate to 
keep himself alive. He has a right to life, to food, 
to liberty; and we have no right to say that he shall 
not have them. 

**Look at his soft, pleading eyes. See him tremble 

15 with fear. He can not speak for himself, and this 
ia the only way in which he can plead for the life 
that is so sweet to him. Shall we be so selfish and 
cruel as to take from him that life which God gave 
him?" 

20 By this time the tears had started in the eyes of 

the judge. The father's heart was stirred within 

him, and he felt that God had given him a son 

whose name would some day be known to the world. 

He did not wait for Daniel to finish his speech. 

26 He sprang to his feet ; he dashed the tears from 
his eyes, and cried out: "Ezekiel, let the wood- 
chuck go!" 



BISONS AND BUFFALOES. 
I. 
Not many years ago there lived on the grassy 
plains of the West great herds of animals called 
bufEaloes. In many ways they were like wild cattle, 
but they were larger and stronger, and had never 
been tame. They were not true bufEaloes, but n 
bisons. Sometimes there were thousands of these 
bisons in a herd. The largest herds were made up 
of a great many small herds which came together at 
certain times or places and then moved apart again. 

When left to themselves, they wandered slowly lo 
from place to place, eating the tall grass as they 
went. In the early summer their 
course was commonly toward the 
north ; but when the days began 
to grow shorter, they turned and w 
made their way back toward the 
south. 

With their big heads and long, 
thick manes, bisons have not a very pleasant look. 
But they are not as fierce as you might think. Hut^e 20 
as they are, they are timid animals. If they are let 
alone, they are not likely to hurt any one. They 
know their strength, but they use it only in taking 
care of themselves. 




18 

Their bodies are not so clumsy as they seem. On 
the plains they could move very quickly when they 
tried, and they traveled very fast. When a great 
herd of bisons was once set to going, nothing could 

6 stop it. Over hilly and rocky country where a horse 
could hardly walk, these animals would move at a 
rapid rate. Did they come to a broad river ? They 
would leap in and swim across. Those in front did 
not dare to stop, for then they would be run over 

10 by those that came behind. 

Every herd was commonly followed by wolves. 
These beasts were always on the lookout for any 
weak or lame straggler that might fall behind, or 
wander from the herd ; and woe to any little bison 

15 that strayed too far from its mother's side. 

When white people first came to this country, the 
bison was the only animal of the ox kind that they 
found. It lived then among the great woods as 
well as on the prairies. But as the country became 

20 settled, these timid animals fled farther and farther 

west, trying to find some place where they could 

live in peace and safety. Go where they would, 

however, there was not much safety for them. 

As long as there were bisons on the great plains, 

25 the Indians of the West would not leave off their 
wild, roving habits. They would rather hunt these 
animals for food than do any kind of work. They 



14 

killed hundreds of bisons every year ; but the next 
year there were hundreds of young bisons to take 
the place of those that had been killed, and so the 
herds were as large as ever. 

In winter, hunters and Indians often had no other 5 
meat than the dried flesh of the bison. It was pre- 
pared by cutting the fresh meat into strips and hang- 
ing these strips over a fire until they were quite hard 
and almost black. It was very much like smoked 
beef, and the Indians called it " pemmican." The lo 
tongue and hump of a bison were the best parts. 
White hunters would often kill the animals for these 
parts alone, and then leave the rest of the body to 
be eaten by the wolves. When railroads were built 
across the plains, it was soon all over with the bisons, is 

They were killed for their skins and their horns. 
They were killed for mere sport and cruelty. Men 
went from the cities to "hunt" them. They shot 
them sometimes from the car windows. They killed 
them, just to be killing, without any thought of the 20 
suffering that was caused. The man who could shoot 
the largest number of bisons in a day thought him- 
self a great hero. So many were killed that in some 
places the ground for miles was covered with the 
dead bodies or the white bones of the poor beasts. 26 

And so there are now no more great herds of 
bisons. They are no longer known in the places where 



16 



they once roamed. Now and then you may see a 
bison in a show or a menagerie ; and it is said that 
there are two or three small herds in certain of the 
great parks of our country. These are all. It is 
6 likely that in a few more years not one of these 
animals will be left alive in all the world. 



The true buffalo is very different from the bison. 
It is found in Africa and India and in the south 
of Europe; but not in America. There are several 

10 kinds of buffaloes, some wild and some tame. The 
wild buffalo is a savage animal. He is so large and 
strong that he is a match for almost any other animal. 

These buffaloes, like the bisons 
of our country, live in large herds. 

IB They like to browse in marshy 
ground where it is easy to find 
plenty of water. They are very 
fond of rolling in the mud. Some- 
times they sink themselves until 

20 the eyes and nose are all that can 
mud. 

In the southern part of Africa there lives another 
kind of buffalo, called the Cape buffalo. The horns 
of the Cape buffalo are large and long, sometimes 

26 measuring five feet from tip to tip. Near the head 




Hw Oftpa BnfiUo. 

seen above the 



they are so large that they cover the eyes, like the 
visor of a cap. On this account, an old buffalo when 
grazing is sometimes unable to see things just in 
front of him. A hunter may walk safely in the 
path before him, if he is careful to make no noise, b 
and does not brush against the bushes as he passes 
along. 

The Cape buffalo is about as large as a common 
ox, but a great deal stronger. It is the fiercest ani- 
mal of its kind. It has often been known to hide lo 
among the tall grass or underbrush, and then rush 
suddenly out upon any passer-by. 

This buffalo is not an easy animal to kill, for the 
skin is so tough that it will often 
turn aside a bullet. To shoot or.e i6 
of these animals and fail to kill 
it instantly is a dangerous thing 
to do ; for a wounded buffalo is a 
far more terrible foe than an un- 
hurt one. In India tame buffaloes 20 

Th« IndUa Bnfiblo. 

are very common — as common as 
cows and oxen in our country. They are used to 
draw wagons, to carry burdens, and to do much of 
the work of a horse on the farms. Sometimes, also, 
the buffalo cow is useful for the milk which she gives. 2s 
From this milk the people make a kind of blue butter 
called ghee. 




IT 

The care of the buffaloes belonging to a farm- 
house is often intrusted to a small boy. In the 
morning he climbs upon the back of the leader of 
the herd and rides slowly out to the pasture fields 

5 which are sometimes a long distance from the house. 
The other cows, seeing their leader moving, fall 
one by one into line, and with many groans and 
grunts follow her along the oft-trodden path. When 
at last the pasture is reached, the boy jumps from 

10 the leader s back and turns her loose to graze. For 
a while the herd is busy nipping the short grass, 
moving slowly here and there among the hillocks 
and stones, and always keeping close together. 
The little herdsman, while keeping an eye 

15 upon the herd, amuses himself in a variety of 
ways. He whistles and sings. He makes 
little baskets of twigs and long grass in 

, . , . . , , A Herdsman. 

which to imprison grasshoppers, or perhaps 

a green lizard or two. And so he contrives to 

20 make the earlier part of the long day pass with 
some comfort and pleasure. 

As for the buffaloes, when the noon sun grows 
hot, they seek out some marshy place where there 
is water and plenty of mud. There they lie down 

25 and roll until they have covered themselves with 
a thick coating of slime. Some of them bury them- 
selves in the mud until only their heads can be seen 

8CH. BEAD. IV. — 2 




18 

above the surface. Their young master, knowing 
that they will stay here the rest of the day, finds 
some shady spot and lies down to sleep, or to look 
up for hours together into the calm blue sky above 
him. But when the sun begins to sink in the west, 




he calls his herd from tlieir muddy baths, mounts the 
leading cow, and sets off slowly towards home. Even 
though he should be belated and night should set in 
before he reaches the house, he need have no fear of 
any wild beast that may be prowling around. His : 
buffaloes are afraid of nothing, and they are very 
strong. Not even a tiger is a match for them ; and 



19 

if one should be so foolish as to venture in their 
way, they will use their great strength and heavy 
horns to such good advantage as to make short work 
of him. 

— ^>^00 — 

FORTUNE AND THE BEGGAR. 

5 One day a ragged beggar was creeping along from 
house to house. He carried an old wallet in his 
hand, and was asking at every door for a few cents 
to buy something to eat. As he was grumbling at 
his lot, he kept wondering why it was that folks 

10 who had so much money were never satisfied but 
were always wanting more. 

" Here," said he, " is the master of this house — 
I know him well. He was always a good business 
man, and he made himself wondrously rich a long 

16 time ago. Had he been wise he would have stopped 
then. He would have turned over his business to 
some one else, and then he could have spent the rest 
of his life in ease. But what did he do instead ? He 
took to building ships and sending them to sea to 

20 trade with foreign lands. He thought he would get 
mountains of gold. 

^^ But there were great storms on the water ; his 
ships were wrecked, and his riches were swallowed 
up by the waves. Now his hopes all lie at the 



20 

bottom of the sea, and his great wealth has vanished 
like the dreams of a night. 

"There are many such cases. Men seem to be 
never satisfied unless they can gain the whole world. 

" As for me, if I had only enough to eat and to s 
wear I would not want anything more." 

Just at that moment Fortune came down the 
street. She saw the beggar and stopped. She said 
to him: "Listen! I have long wished to help you. 
Hold your wallet and I will pour this gold into ic 
it. But I will pour only on this condition : All that 
falls into the wallet shall be pure gold ; but every 
piece that falls upon the ground shall become dust. 
Do you understand ? " 

" Oh, yes, I understand," said the beggar. ic 

"Then have a care," said Fortune. "Your wallet 
is old ; so do not load it too heavily." 

The beggar was so glad that he could hardly wait. 
He quickly opened his wallet, and a stream of yellow 
dollars was poured into it. The wallet soon began 2t 
to grow heavy. 

" Is that enough ? " asked Fortune. 

"Not yet." 

" Isn't it cracking ? " 

" Never fear." 2B 

The beggar's hands began to tremble. Ah, if 
the golden stream would only pour forever! 



21 



*' You are the richest man in the world now ! " 
"Just a little more," said the beggar; "add just 
a handful or two." 

" There, it's full. The wallet will burst." 




6 " But it will hold a little more, just a little more ! " 

Another piece was added, and the wallet split. The 

treasure fell upon the ground and was turned to 

dust. Fortune had vanished. The beggar bad now 

nothing but his empty wallet, and it was torn from 

10 top to bottom. He was as poor as before. 

— From the Russian of Ivan Krikiff. 



22 



THE PIPER'S SONG. 

Piping down the valleys wild, 

Piping songs of pleasant glee, 
On a cloud I saw a child. 

And he,^ laughing, said to me, 

" Pipe a song about a lamb," 5 

So I piped with merry cheer. 
"Piper, pipe that song again," 

So I piped, he wept to hear. 

" Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe. 

Sing thy songs of happy cheer." 10 

So I sang the same again, 

While he wept with joy to hear. 

" Piper, sit thee down and write 

In a book that all may read." 
So he vanished from my sight ; 15 

And I plucked a hollow reed. 

And I made a rural pen, 

And I stained the water clear. 
And I wrote my happy songs 

Every child may joy to hear. 20 

— William Blake. 



TWO SURPRISES. 
A workman plied his clumsy spade 
As the sun was going down ; 

The German king with his cavalcade 
Was coming into town. 




" How much," said the king, " Ls thy gain in a day ? " 

" Eight groschen," the man rephed. 
" And canst thou Hve on this meager pay ? " — 

"Like a king," he said with pride. 



24 

" Two groschen for me and my wife, good friend, 

And two for a debt I owe ; 
Two groschen to lend and two to spend 

For those who can't labor, you know/' 

" Thy debt ? " said the king. Said the toiler, " Yea, 5 

To my mother with age oppressed, 
Who cared for me, toiled for me, many a day, 

And now hath need of rest." 

" To whom dost lend of thy daily store ? " 

" To my three boys at school. You see, 10 

When I am too feeble to toil any more, 
They will care for their mother and me." 

" And thy last two groschen ? " the monarch said. 

" My sisters are old and lame ; 
I give them two groschen for raiment and bread, 15 

All in the Father's name." 

Tears welled up in the good king's eyes — 

" Thou knowest me not," said he ; 
" As thou hast given me one surprise. 

Here is another for thee. 



ao 



" I am thy king ; give me thy hand " — 
And he heaped it high with gold — 

" When more thou needest, I command 
That I at once be told. 



26 



"For I would bless with rich reward 
The man who can proudly say, 

That eight souls he doth keep and guard 
On eight poor groschen a day." 



-•ojOjoo- 



FREAKS OF THE FROST. 

5 The Frost looked forth one still, clear night. 
And whispered, " Now I shall be out of sight ; 
So through the valley and over the height 

In silence I'll take my way. 
I will not go on like that blustering train — 
10 The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain — 
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain ; 
But ril be as busy as they." 

Then he flew to the mountain and powdered ^ts cr8st ; 

He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed 
16 With diamond beads ; and over the breast 
Of the quivering lake he spread 

A coat of mail, that it need not fear 

The downward point of many a spear 

That he hung on its margin, far and near, 
20 Where a rock could rear its head. 



26 

He went to the windows of those who slept, 
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept ; 
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, 

By the light of the morn were seen 
Most beautiful things : there were flowers and trees, o 
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees ; 
There were cities, and temples, and towers ; and these 

All pictured in silver sheen. 

But he did one thing that was hardly fair : 

He went to the cupboard, and finding there lo 

That all had forgotten for him to prepare — 

" Now, just to set them a-thinking, 
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, 
" This costly pitcher I'll burst in three ; 
And the glass of water they've left for me i5 

Shall Schick ! ' to tell them I'm drinking." 

— Hannah F, Gould, 



-oo»<o«- 



GOING EAST BY SAILING WEST. 

I. 

About four hundred years ago there came to Spain 
an Italian sailor who believed that the earth is 
round. Such a belief may not seem at all strange 
to us, but to the people of that time it appeared to 20 
be very foolish and unreasonable. Almost every- 



27 

body laughed at the Italian, and called him a silly 
fellow. 

" Have you eyes ? " they asked. " If so, you need 
only to open them and look about you to see that 
5 the earth is as flat as the top of a table." 

"You may think it is flat," he answered, "and 

indeed it does appear to be so. But I know it is 

round ; and if I had only a good ship or two, and 

some trusty sailors, I would prove it to you. I 

10 would sail westward across the great ocean, and in 

the end would reach the Indies and China, which 

must be on the other side of the great round world." 

" Whoever heard of such nonsense ! " cried the 

learned doctors in the university of Salamanca. 

15 " Everybody knows that China and the Indies are in 

the far East, and that they can be reached only by 

a dangerous voyage through the Mediterranean Sea, 

and long journeys with camels across the great 

desert. Yet, here is Mr. Crack-brain, an Italian 

20 sailor, who says he can go to the East by sailing 

west. One might as well try to reach the moon by 

going down into a deep well." 

"But you don't understand me," answered the 

man whom they had called Mr. Crack-brain. " Here 

25 is an apple. Let us suppose that it is the earth. I 

stick a pin on this side, and call it Spain. On the 

other side I stick another pin, and call it the Indies. 



28 



Now suppose a fly lights upon the apple at the point 
which I have called Spain. By tiu'ning to the right, 
or eastward, he can travel round to the Indies with 
but little trouble ; or by turning to the left, or west- 
ward, he can reach the same place with just as much s 
ease, and in really a shorter time. Do you see ? '' 

" Do we see ? " answered the doctors. ''" Certainly 
we see the apple, and we can imagine that we see 
the fly. It is very hard, however, to imagine that 
the earth is an apple, or anything like it. For, sup- lo 
pose that it Avere so : what would become of all the 
water in the seas and the great ocean? Why, it 
would run off at the blossom end of the apple, which 
you call the South Pole ; and all the rocks and trees 
and men would follow it. Or, suppose that men 15 
could stick to the lower part of the earth as the fly 
does to the lower part of the apple — how very silly 
it would be to think of them walking about with 
their heads hanging down ! " 

" And suppose," said one of the doctors who 20 
thought himself very wise — "suppose that the earth 
is roimd, and suppose that the water should not spill 
off, and suppose you should sail to the other side, as 
you want to do, how are you to get back? Did 
anybody ever hear of a ship sailing up hill ? " 25 

And so the learned doctors and professors dis- 
missed the whole subject. They said it was not 



29 

worth while for wise men to spend their time in 
talking about such things. But the man whom they 
had called Mr. Crack-brain would not give up his 
theory. He was not the first man to believe that 

5 the earth is round — this he knew ; but he hoped to 
be the first to prove it by sailing westward, and 
thus finally reaching the Indies, and the rich coun- 
tries of the far East. And yet he had no ship^ he 
was very poor, and the few friends whom he had 

10 were not able to give him any help. 

" My only hope," he said, " is to persuade the king 
and queen to furnish me with a ship." 

ir. 

But how should an unknown Italian sailor make 
himself heard by the king and queen of the most 
15 powerful country in Europe ? 

The great men at the king's court ridiculed him. 
" You had better buy a fisherman's boat," they 
said, "and try to make an honest living with your 
nets. Men of your kind have no business with kings. 
20 As to your crazy theory about the shape of the earth, 
only think of it! How dare you, the son of an 
Italian wool-comber, imagine that you know more 
about it than the wisest men in the world ? " 

But he did not despair. For years he followed 
25 the king's court from place to place. Most people 



looked upon him as a kind of harmless lunatic who 
had gotten a single idea in his head and was unable 
to think of anything else. But there were a few 
good and wise men who listened to his theories, and 
after studying them care- o 
fully, began to believe that 
there was some truth in 
them. 

One of these men was 
Father Perez, the prior of lo 
the convent of La Rabida ; 
and, to please this good 
prior, the queen at last 
sent for the sailor and asked him to tell her all 
about his strange theories and his plans for sailing is 
west and reaching the East. 




Oonnnt of La Rallda, 



" You say that if yon had the vessels and the men 
you would sail westward and discover new lands on 
the farther side of the great ocean," said the queen. 
" What reasons have you for supposing that there 20 
are any such lands?" 

"My first reason is that, since the earth is round 
like a ball, the coxmtries of China and the Indies 
must lie in a westward direction and can, sooner or 
later, be reached by sailing across the sea," was the as 




31 

answer. " You, yourself, have heard the story of St. 
Brandon, the Scottish priest, who, eight hundred years 
ago, was driven by a storin far across the ocean, and 
how at last he landed upon a strange and unknown 

s shore. I doubt not but that this 
country was one of the outlying islands 
of the Indies, or perhaps the eastern 
shore of China. 

" Not very long ago, Martin Vincent, 

10 a sea captain of Lisbon, ventured to go 
a distance of four hundred miles from 
land. There he picked up a piece of 
wood, with strange marks and carv- '^""'^ i"-""""' 

ings upon it, which had been drifted from the west 

us by strong winds. Other seafaring men have found, 
far out in the ocean, reeds and light wood, such as 
travelers say are found in some parts of the Indies, 
but nowhere in Europe. And if any one should want 
more proofs than these, it would not be hard to find 

so them. There is a story among the people of the far 
north which relates that, about five hundred years 
ago, some bold sea rovers from Iceland discovered a 
wild, wooded country many days' sail to the westward. 
Indeed, it is said that these men tried to form a 

25 settlement there, and that they sent more than one 
shipload of grapes and timber back to Iceland. Now, 
it is very plain to me that this country of Vin- 



32 

land, as they called it, was no other than a part cpt 
the northern coast of Chma or Japan." 

It is not to be supposed that the queen cared 
whether the earth was round or flat ; nor is it likely 
that her mind was ever troubled with questions of ^ 
that kind. But she thought that if this man's 
theories were true, and there were lands rich in gold 
and spices on the other side of the ocean, it would be . 
a fine thing for the queen and king of Spain to pos- 
sess them. The Italian sailor had studied his subject lo 
well, and he certainly knew what he was talking 
about. He had told his story so well that the queen 
was almost ready to believe that he was right. But 
she was very busy just then, in a war with the 
Moors, and she had little time to think about any- 16 
thing else. If the Italian would wait- till everything 
else could be settled, she would see whether a ship or 
two might not be fitted out for his use. 

IV. 

For seven years this man with a new idea kept on 
trying to find some one who was able and willing % 
to help him carry out the plans which he had so 
much at heart. At last, broken in health and almost 
penniless, he gave up hope, and was about to leave 
Spain forever. It was then that one of his friends, 
Luis St. Angel, pleaded his case before the queen. 2\ 



34 

" It will cost but little to fit out two or three ships 
for him. If the undertaking should prove to be a 
failure, you would not lose much. But if it should 
succeed, only think what vast riches and how great 
honor will be won for Spain ! " 5 

" I will take the risk ! " cried the queen, at last. 
" If the money can not be had otherwise, I will sell 
my jewels to get it. Find him, and bring hun 
before me ; and let us lose no more time about 
this business." lo 

St. Angel hastened to obey. 

" Do you know whether Christopher Columbus has 
passed out through this gate to-day?" he asked of 
the soldier who was standing guard at one of the 
gates of the old city of Granada. is 

" Christopher Columbus ? Who is he ? " asked the 
soldier. 

" He is a gray-bearded man, rather tall, with a 
stoop in his shoulders. When last seen he was rid- 
ing on a small, brown mule, and coming this way." co 

'' Oh ! Do you mean the fellow who has been try- 
ing to make people believe that the earth is round ?" 

" Yes, that is the man." 

"He passed through here not half an hour ago. 
His mule is a very slow traveler, and if you follow, 25 
you can easily overtake him before he has gone far." 

St. Angel gave the rein to his swift horse, and 



galloped onward in pursuit of Columbus. It was not 
long until the slow-paced mule, with its sad rider, 
was seen plodding along the dusty highway. The 
man was too busy with his own thoughts 

B to heed the sound of the ringing hoofs 
behind him. 

"Christopher Columbus!" cried his 
friend, " turn about, and come back with 
me, I have good news for you. Queen 

10 Isabella bids me say that she will help 
you, and that you shall have the ships 
and the men for which you ask in order f^^^^" OoimDbui. 
to find a new way to the East, and perhaps discover 
unknown lands on the further side of the great ocean, 

u Turn about, and come back with me ! " 




One morning in August, 1492, there was a great 
stir in the little seaport town of Palos in Spain. At 
break of day the streets were full of people. Every- 
body had risen early and was hurrying down toward 

20 the harbor. Long before sunrise the shore was lined 

with anxious men, women, and children. All were 

talking about the same thing ; some were weeping ; 

some appeared to be angry ; some were in despair. 

" Only think of it," said one? " Think of sailing 

36 into seas where the water is always boiling hot." 



36 



" And if you escape being scalded," said another, 
" then there are those terrible sea beasts that are 
large enough to swallow ships and sailors at a single 
mouthful. Oh, why should the queen send men on 
such a hopeless voyage as this ? " s 

" It is all on account of that Italian sailor who 
says that the world is round," said a third. " He 
has persuaded several persons, who 
ought to know better, that he 
can reach the East hy sailing lo 
west." 

Moored near the shore 

were three small ships. 

They were but little larger 

than fishing boats ; and in u 

these frail vessels Columbus 

was going to venture into tlie 

vast unknown sea, in search of strange lands and 

of a new and better way to distant India. 

Two of the ships, the "Nina" and the«Puita,"M 
had no decks and were covered only at the ends 
where the sailors slept. The third, called the 
'* Santa Maria," was lai^r and had a deck, and from 
its masthead floated the flag of Columbus. It was 
toward these tluee ahips that the eyes oi tiie people » 
"~' \ it was about these ships and 
1 that all wen talking. 




Tha Sutft Uftrift. 



3T 



On the deck of the largest ship stood Columbus, 

and by his side was good Father Perez, praying that 

the voyagers might be blessed with fair winds and 

a smooth sea, and that the brave captain miglit be 

» successful in his quest. ^ 

Then the last good-byes were 
spoken, the moorings were cast 
loose, the sails were spread ; 
and, a little before sunrise, 
10 the vessels glided slowly out 
of the harbor and into the vast 
western ocean. The people stood 
on the shore and watched, while ^Z~~ 

the sails grew smaller and small- "^^^ ^^'*' 

15 er and at last were lost to sight below the line of sea 
and sky. 

" Alas ! We shall never see them again," said 
some, returning to their homes. But others re- 
mained all day by the shore talking about the 
20 strange idea that there were unknown lands in the 
distant west. 




Two hundred miles southwest of Palos there is a 

group of islands called the Canary Islands. These 

were well known to the people of that time, and 

a belonged to Spain. But sailors seldom ventured be- 



yond them, and no one knew of any land farther 
to the west. It was to these islands that Columbus 
first directed his course. In six days the three little 
vessels reached the Canary Islands. The sailing had 
been very slow. The rudder of one of the ships had » 
not been well made and had soon been broken. And 
so, now, much time was wasted while having a new 
rudder made and put in place. 

It was not until the 6th of September 
that Columbus again set sail, pushing lo 
westward into unknown waters. 
Soon the sailors began to give 
way to their fears. The 
thought that they were on 
seas where no man had before a 
z^^' ventured filled them with 
aJarm. They remembered all 
the strange stories that they 
had heard of dreadful monsters and of mysterious 
dangers, and their minds were filled with distress. ao 

But Columbus showed them how unreasonable 
these stories were; and he aroused their curiosity 
by telling them wonderful things about India — 
that land of gold and precious stones, which they 
would surely reach if they would bravely perse- 2s 
vere. 

And so, day after day, they sailed onward, not 




39 

knowing where they were nor toward what unknown 

region their course was directed. The sea was calm, 

and the wind blowing from the east drove the ships 

steadily forward. By the first of October they had 

5 sailed more than two thousand miles. Birds came 

from the west, and flew about the ships. The water 

was full of floating seaweed. But still no laud could 

be seen. 

Then the sailors began to fear that they would 

10 never be able to return against the east wind that 
was blowing. "Why should we obey this man, 
Columbus?" they said. "He is surely mad. Let 
us throw him into the sea, and then turn the ships 
about while we can." 

16 But Columbus was so firm and brave that they 
dared not lay hands on him ; they dared not disobey 
him. Soon they began to see signs of the nearness 
of land. Weeds, such as grow only in rivers, were 
seen floating near the ships. A branch of a tree, 

20 with berries on it, was picked up. Columbus offered 
a reward to the man who should first see land. 

" We must be very near it now," he said. " Before 
another day we shall discover it." 

That night no one could sleep. At about two 

25 o'clock the man who was on the lookout on one of 
the smaller vessels cried : " Land ! land ! land ! " 
Columbus himself had seen a distant light moving, 



40 

• 

some hours before. There was now a great stir on 
board the ships. 

" Where is the land ? " cried every one. 

" There — there ! Straight before us." 

Yes, there was a low, dark mass far in front of 5 
them, which might be land. In the dim starlight, it 
was hard to make out what it was. But one thing 
was certain, it was not a mere expanse of water, such 
as lay in every other direction. And so the sailors 
brought out a little old-fashioned cannon and fired it lo 
oflE as a signal to the crews of the other vessels. 
Then the sails of the three ships were furled, and 
they waited for the light of day. 

When morning dawned, Columbus and his com- 
panions saw that they were quite near to a green is 
and sunny island. It was a beautiful spot. There 
were pleasant groves where the songs of birds were 
heard. Thousands of flowers were seen on every 
hand, and the trees were laden with fruit. The 
island was inhabited, too ; for strange men could be 20 
seen running toward the shore and looking with 
wonder at the ships. 

The sailors, who had lately been ready to give up 
all hope, were now filled with joy. They crowded 
around Columbus, and kissed his hands, and begged 25 
him to forgive them for thinking of disobeying him. 
The ships cast anchor, the boats were lowered, and 



41 



Columbus, with most of the men, went on shore. 
Columbus was dressed in a grand robe of scarlet, and 
the banner of Spain was borne above him. 



VII. 

As soon as the boats reached the shore, Columbus 
5 stepped out and knelt down upon the beach and 
gave thanks to God ; then he took possession of the 
island in the name of the king and queen of Spain, 
and called it San Salvador. It was thus that the 
first land in America was discovered on the 12th of 
10 October, 1492. 

The natives were filled with wonder at what they 
* saw. At first they were awed and frightened at 

■ 

sight of the ships and the strange men; but they 
soon overcame their fears and seemed delighted and 

15 very friendly. They brought to Columbus gifts of 
all they had, — bananas, yams, oranges, and beauti- 
ful birds. 

"Surely,'' they said, "these wonderful beings who 
have come to us from the sea are not mere men like 

20 ourselves. They must be messengers from heaven." 

Columbus believed that this island was near the 

coast of Asia, and that it was one of the islands of 

India; and so he called the people Indians. He did 

not remain here long, but sailed away to discover 



42 

other lands. In a short time the ships came to a 
large island where there were rivers of fresh water 
flowing into the sea. On every hand there were 
bright flowers and climbing vines and groves of 
palms and banana trees. The air was sweet with 




H« look poiiMitoD i>f tba ialaud, 

the breath of blossoms ; the sky was blue and clear ; 
the sea was calm ; the world seemed full of joy and 
peace. This island was Cuba. 

" Let us live here always ! " cried the sailors ; " for 
surely this is paradise." 

And so, for three months and more, Columbus and 
his companions sailed among scenes of delight, such 
as they had never before imagined. They visited 



43 

island after island, and everywhere saw new beau- 
ties and new pleasures. The natives were simple- 
hearted and kind. "They love their neighbors as 
themselves/' said Columbus. They looked with 

5 wonder upon the bright swords of the white men 
and upon their brilliant armor; and when the little 
cannon was fired, they were so filled with alarm that 
they fell to the ground. 

It was on the 15th of the next March that Colum- 

10 bus, after a stormy homeward voyage, sailed again 
into the little harbor of Palos, from which he had 
started. And now there was a greater stir in the 
little town than there had been before. "Christo- 
pher Columbus has come back from the unknown 

16 seas ! " was the cry that went from house to house. 
" Did he reach the East by sailing west ? Has he 
really been to far-off India?" asked the doubting ones. 
"He has, indeed!" was the answer. "He has 
discovered a new world." 

20 Then the bells were rung, guns were fired, and 

bonfires blazed on the hilltops. Everybody rejoiced. 

Everybody was willing now to say that the Italian 

was right when he declared the earth to be round. 

" Make haste and carry the news to the queen ! " 

25 said the governor of the town. " Tell her that 
Columbus has returned, and that he has really found 
a new way to India." 



44 



DAYBREAK. 



99 



A wind came up out of the sea, 

And said, " mists, make room for me ! 

It hailed the ships, and cried, " Sail on, 
Ye mariners, the night is gone ! '' 

And hurried landward far away, 5 

Crying, " Awake, it is the day ! " 

It said unto the forest, " Shout ! 
Hang all your leafy banners out ! " 

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing. 

And said, ^-0 bird, awake and sing ! " lo 

And o'er the farms, " chanticleer. 
Your clarion blow ; the day is near ! " 

It whispered to the fields of corn, 

" Bow down, and hear the chiming morn ! '' 

It shouted through the belfry tower, 15 

" Awake, bell ! proclaim the hour." 

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh. 
And said, " Not yet ! in quiet lie." 

— Henry W. Longfellow, 



45 

TURTLES ON THE AMAZON. 

I. 

The Amazon River is in South America. It is the 
longest and largest river in the world. During the 
rainy season it is not unlike a great inland sea. In 
the dry season, when the stream is at its lowest, 

6 vast sand banks crop up, here and there, above the 
water, and line the shores on either side. The 
greater part of its course is through a wild forest, 
and there are no great cities upon its banks. 

One pleasant evening a few years ago, a young 

10 lad and an Indian guide landed from a canoe upon 
a great bank of white sand which stretched for 
miles along the river. Here they made ready to 
pass the night. They gathered a heap of driftwood 
and kindled a large fire to keep off the wild beasts, 

15 of which there were many kinds in the forest. After 
they had eaten a slight luncheon, they agreed to 
keep watch by turns during the night. 

The lad, whose turn came first, seated himself 
upon a pile of sand and did his best to keep awake. 

20 But he was very tired, and, in spite of himself, fell 
into a nap, from which he was awakened by sliding 
down the sand hill, and tumbling over on his side. 
He jumped up quickly and looked around to see if 
any creature had ventured near. 

25 Yes, there, on the other side of the fire, he saw 




46 

a pair of dull eyes looking at him. Close to them 
he saw another pair, then another, and another, until, 
having looked on every side, he saw that he was 
in the center of a circle of eyes ! • It is true 
they were quite small eyes, and some of the s 
heads which he could see by the blaze were 
small. They had an ugly look, like the 
heads of serpents. 

The boy stood for some moments uncer- 
tain what to do. He believed that the eyes lo 
belonged to snakes which had just crept out of the 
river ; and he feared that any movement on his part 
would lead them to attack him. Having risen to 
his feet, his eyes were above the level of the blazei, 
and he was able in a little while to see more clearly, w 

He now saw that the snake-like heads belonged 
to creatures with large oval bodies, and that, besides 
the fifty or more which had come up to look at 
the fire, there were whole droves of them upon the 
sandy beach beyond. As far as he could see on all 20 
sides, the bank was covered with them. A strange 
sight it was, and most fearful. For his life he could 
not make out what it meant, or by what sort of 
wild animals he was surrounded. 

He could see that their bodies were not larger 25 
than those of small sheep; and, from the way in 
which they glistened in the moonlight, he was sure 



47 

they had come out of the river. He called to the 
Indian guide, who awoke and started to his feet 
in alarm. The movement frightened the creatures 
round the fire ; they rushed to the shore, and were 
5 heard plunging by hundreds into the water. 

II. 

The Indian's ear caught the sounds, and his eye 
took in the whole thing at a glance. 

" Turtles," he said. 

" Oh," said the lad ; " turtles, is it ? " 
10 ^^Yes, master," answered the guide. "I suppose 
this is one of their great hatching places. They are 
going to lay their eggs in the sand." 

There was no danger from turtles, but the fright 

bad chased away sleep, and the two travelers sat by 

15 the camp fire for some time, talking about these 

strange creatures. The turtles of the Amazon meet 

together in great herds every year. Each of the 

herds chooses a place for itself — some sandy island 

or great sand bank. They then crawl ashore at 

20 night in vast multitudes, and each turtle, with the 

strong, crooked claws of her hind feet, digs a hole in 

the sand. Each hole is about three feet across and 

two feet deep. In this she lays her eggs — -from 

seventy to one hundred and twenty in number — 

25 white, hard-shelled, and somewhat larger than the 



48 

eggs of a pigeon. She then fills the hole with sand, 
leveling the top to make the sand bank look as 
smooth as before ; this done, her work is at an end. 
In a few days the great army betakes itself to the 
water, and scatters in every direction. s 

The sun, shining upon the sand, does the rest, 
and in less than six weeks the young turtles, about as 
broad as a silver dollar, crawl out of the sand and at 
once find their way to the 
water. Tliey are afterwards lo 
■ seen in shallow pools or lakes 
far from the place where 
they were hatched. How 
they find these pools, or 
whether their mothers know is 
their own young ones and lead them thither, nobody 
knows. 

An old mother turtle is often seen swimming with 
as many as a hundred little ones after her. Now, 
are these her own, or are they a collection which 20 
she has picked up here and there ? Would it not be 
strange if each mother turtle should know her own 
young? Such a thing seems scarcely possible, and 
yet there may he some instinct which gives her the 
power to tell which of the little ones among the as 
millions really belong to her. Who can say ? 

— Mayne Jieid. 




A Mother TartU and Little Onei. 



49 

HOW THE THRUSHES CROSSED THE SEA. 

I. 

In Egypt, not far from the pyramids, a mother 
thrush had spent a pleasant winter with a fine brood 
of young thrushes. But as the days began to grow 
warmer, a strange restlessness began to warn them 
5 that it was time to take their flight to a more 
northern country and a less sunny clime. 

The mother thrush gathered her children together, 
and having joined a flock of friends from the banks 
of the upper Nile, they spread their wings and flut- 
lotered away toward the Mediterranean Sea. There 
in due time they arrived, and alighted not far from 
the shore. 

"Where shall we go now?" asked one of the 
young birds, whose name was Songful. 
15 " We must cross the great sea," said his mother. 

"What!" cried another, who was called Think- 
little. "How can we do that? We shall drown 
before we are halfway across." 

Then a third, whom everybody knew as Grumbler, 

20 began to complain. "Oh dear!" he cried. "You 

have brought us here only to drown us in the sea." 

Then Songful, and Thinklittle, and Thankful, the 
rest of Mother Thrush's family, all joined in the cry 
of Grumbler. " You have brought us here only to 
25 drown us in the sea ! " 

son. READ. IV. — 4 



50 

"Wait a little while/' said their mother, quietly. 
" We must find a ship to carry us across." 

" Ah! " sighed Songful, "but I am afraid of ships! 
They often carry some of those creatures called boys, 
who shoot arrows and throw stones at little birds ! " s 

"True enough!" said Thinklittle. "Ships are 
dangerous things." 

"And you brought us here only to be shot and 
stoned by bad ship boys ! " cried Grumbler. 

But the patient mother bird said, " Wait a little k 
while ! Wait a little while ! " 

The very next day a strange sound was heard 
high up in the air : " Honk ! honk ! honk ! " 

" There are our ships ! " cried Mother Thrush. 

" What do you mean ? " piped Thinklittle. And ii 
he hopped upon a twig, looked up into the sky, and 
shook his wings. "I see nothing but a flock of 
those clumsy storks that wade in the mud by the 
river banks or sit on the high columns of the old 
temples. I know all abo.ut them." 2( 

" Ha ! ha ! " laughed Songful. " Do you expect 
to see ships coming from the sky ? Look toward 
the sea, brother ! " And then he sang one of his 
happiest songs. 

"What great awkward fellows those storks are!" 25 
said Grumbler. " There is no more music in them 
than in an Egyptian water wheel." And with that 



61 

he began to whistle a merry tune to show how much 
better he was than the birds he despised. 

But his mother only nodded her head and said^ 
" Wait a little while ! " 

n. 

6 The storks settled down upon the shore, quite 

near to the little company of thrushes. There, for 

a while, they fed among the tall plants that grew 

by the margin of the water. But soon they began 

to make a great stir ; and they called to one another 

10 among the reeds, " Honk, creek ! Honk, creek ! " 

" There ! " said Mother Thrush. " They're going ! 

Get ready, my children ! We must go with them.'' 

^^ How are we going to do that ? " cried Grumbler. 

"Yes, how?" said Thinklittle. "We are nob 

16 strong enough to keep up with those storks." 

" Silence ! " cried Mother Thrush, now much ex- 
cited. "Say not a word, but do as I do." 

The storks slowly raised their awkward bodies and 
spread their huge wings. Then they soared into 
20 the air, trailed their legs behind them, and crying 
hoarsely, took their course straight across the sea. 

" Now ! " cried Mother Thrush. " Be quick ! 
Follow me, and do as I do ! " 

She darted into the midst of the flock of storks, 
as with her four broodlings close beside her. For a 



52 

moment or two, she fluttered over a gray-winged 
stork, and then settled down upon the bund's broad 
back and nestled between her wings. All her family 
followed, and cuddled down beside her. For a short 
time they felt so strange in their odd resting place 5 
that they kept very still. But after a while the 
young ones began to talk. 

"This is a pleasant voyage, indeed," said Think- 
little. " How nice to ride on the backs of these big 
storks ! The people who ride on camels, or on the lo 
little donkeys that trot to and from the pyramids, 
have not half so pleasant a time." 

" Now I understand what mother meant when she 
spoke of ships," said Songful. "I wonder if she 
thinks our stork will carry us all the way across." i5 

" Indeed, she will ! " said Mother Thrush. 

"Yes," said Grumbler; "she may, if she doesn't 
shake us all off and drown us ! " 

III. 

They rode on for many and many a mile, some- 
times being a little frightened as the stork fluttered 20 
to and fro, or sank and rose again. But now and 
then they ventured to peep out between the wide- 
spread wings, and look down upon the green sea 
that rolled beneath them. 

" Mother," at last said Thankful. 25 





53 

" Well, my dear." 

"Don't you think that the stork must be very 
tired, and that we ought to do something 
to comfort and cheer her as she flies ? " 
B "Hush!" cried 
Thinklittle. "If the 
stork finds that we are 
here, she will toss us off 
of her back." 
10 " Oh, who cares if the 
stork is tired," said Grumbler. " She can 
feel no worse than we do." 

Thankful was silent for a little while. 
Then she crept close to her brother Songful, and the 
16 two twittered softly together for a moment. At 
last, without a word to the others, they lifted their 
heads and broke forth together into song. The notes 
of the duet rose sweet and clear above the fluttering 
of the stork's wings and the whistling of the shrill 
20 north wind. 

" Ah ! " cried Thinklittle, as he heard the song ; " it 
is very sweet, indeed, and I feel almost like singing 
too. But what if the old stork should hear us ! " 
" Yes, indeed," said Grumbler. " It is very fool- 
25 ish to let her know that we are here." 

But the stork listened to the song with pleasure 
and was not at all angry. More than once she 



54 

turned her head backward, and out of her deep round 
eyes looked kindly upon the singers. 

" Thank you/' she said when the song was ended. 
*^ You have cheered the way with your pleasant song. 
I am so glad that you chose to come with me." 6 

Thinklittle was ashamed of himself, and began to 
warble a pretty tune ; and then Grumbler forgot to 
complain, and joined in the song. 

From that time on, all the way across the sea, the 
carrier stork was made happy by the melody of the lo 
grateful thrushes. At last the northern shore was 
reached, and the thrushes rose from the back of the 
great bird that had carried them so far and so safely. 
Then breaking into a chorus of song, with sweet 
words of farewell, they flew away to make the rest w 
of the journey home upon their own wings. 

When they reached the green fields and broad 
canals of Holland, they found the good stork and 
her friends already at home on the tall chimneys of 
an old town; and after friendly greetings they set2( 
to work building their own nests. 

Now it happened that this story was much talked 
about in Holland, and so from that day to this the 
little song birds which cross the sea on the backs of 
the great storks are said to warble all the way. 21 
And the storks are glad to carry them, because of 
their sweet songs. —Henry a McCook. 



THE HAYMAKERS — OLD STYLE. 

It is five o'clock. The morning is clear and 
fresh. A hundred birds, — yes, five hundred — are 
singing as birds never sing except in the morning. 
Will it rain to-day ? The heavens overhead look 

5 like it, but the barometer says, " No." Then a few 
rounds with the scythe before breakfast, by way of 
getting the path open ! 

There they go, a pretty pair of mowers ! The 
blinking dewdrops on the grass tops wink at them 

10 and pitch headlong under the stroke of the swing- 
ing scythe. How low and musical is the sound of 
a scythe in its passage through a thick pile of grass ! 
There sounds the horn ! Breakfast is ready. All 
the children are farmer's boys for the occasi' 

15 Bless their appetites ! It does one good to jj /; 
see growing children eat with a real 
hearty appetite. Mountain air, a free h 
foot in grassy fields and open groves, 
plain food and enough of it — these „_-^ 

20 things kill the lilies in the cheek and "T^^ 
bring forth roses. 

John Dargu, 

But we must hasten and make hay 
while the sun shines. Already John Dargan is 
whetting his scythe, — John, as tough as a knot, 
85 strong as steel, famous in all the region for plow- 




ing, and equally skillful at mowing — turning his 
furrow and cutting his swath alike smoothly and 
evenly. The man of the farm strikes in first ; John 
follows, and away they go uphill toward the sun. 
Round and round the field they go, with steady 9 
swing, the grass plot growing less at every turn. 

Meanwhile all the boys have been at work spread- 
ing grass. The noon hour conies on. It passes, and 
the sun begins to slope toward the western horizon. 
It is time to house the hay. The day is gone, and 10 
the night comes. 

With another morning, and that Saturday morn- 
ing, comes up the sun without a single cloud ; the 
a,ir is clear as crystal. No mist on the river; 
[■",1.;^^ no fleece on the mountains. ib 

Yet the barometer is sinking — has been 
sinking all night. It has fallen more than 
a quarter of an inch and continues slowly 
to fall. Our plans must be laid accord- 
■ ingly. We will cut the clover, and pre- a 
pare to get in all yesterday's mowing before 
two o'clock. One load we roll in before 
While snatching our hasty meal, affairs 
grow critical. The sun is hidden. The noon is dark. 

Now, if you wish to see pretty working, follow the a 
cart. The long forks fairly leap among the hay ; to 
a backward lift they spring up, poise a moment in 




57 

the air, and shoot their burdens forward upon the 
^oad, where they are caught by the nimble John, and 
in a twinkling are in their place. 

We hear thunder and see the lightnings flash on 
5 the horizon. There are no lazybones here ! All the 
girls and ladies come forth to the fray. Delicate 
hands are making lively work, raking up the scat- 
tered grass, and flying with right nimble steps here 
and there, bent on cheating the rain of its expected 
^o prey. 

And now the long windrows are formed. The 

last load of hay from the other fields has just rolled 

into the barn ! Down jumps John, and rolls up the 

windrows into huge round piles. We follow and 

X5 glean with the rake. The last one is finished. 

A drop patters down on my face, — another, and 
another. Look at those baseless mountains that 
tower in the west, black as night at the bottom, 
glowing like snow at the top edges ! Far in the 
20 north the rain has begun to pour down upon old 
Greylock ! But the sun is shining- through the 
shower and turning it to a golden atmosphere. 

Only a look can we spare, and all of us run for the 

house and in good time. Down comes the flood, and 

25 every drop is musical. We pity the neighbors who, 

not warned by a barometer, are racing and chasing 

to secure their outlying crop. 



THE HAYMAKERS — NEW STYLE. 

It is now nearly seven o'clock in the morning — 
but early enough for laboring men to be in the field. 
Ten hours — five before noon, and five after — is a 
long day's work, and nobody, save the farmer and his 
boys, can be expected to do more. And here come 
the mowing machines, — one, two, three, four, — each 
drawn by a team of sturdy but spirited horses. 
What elegant pieces of mechanism these mowers are! 
And yet, how simple, how light, how strong ! Not 
much like the first rude contrivances, that were i; 
made for the same purpose some forty years ago. 

Open the gate, Patrick, and let them drive into 
the field. Johnson, with the team of sprightly 
blacks, will take the lead ; for he is a careful driver, 
and his fast-walking horses will keep well out of the i£ 
way of those that follow. Now, while they are 
making ready for the start, cast your eye over the 
sea of waving timothy before you. Thirty acres of 
the finest meadow land in the country — level as a 
floor, and not a stump or a stick or a stone in the 20 
way. What would your grandfather have done in 
such a fields with only an old-fashioned scythe or 
two, and so much grass to be cut? 

And now the work begins. The sickle bars are 
let down. The drivers, on their comfortable spring ac 
seats, give the word to the horses, and they start 



59 




off gayly enough, but steadily — for they know that 
this is to be no holiday for them. Clicket-clicket- 
clicket-clicket-clicket ! sings the row of sharp knives, 
nicknamed the 

s sickle, as it flies 
back and forth 
faster than your 
eye can follow it. 
It spares nothing 

lothat comes in its 
way. The tall 
timothy, the strag- Jobiwn uk» tb» i»»d. 

gling blue grass, the blossoming clover, fall prostrate 
as it passes. No need now for the boys to toss the 

15 hay with their pitchforks; for it is already spread, 
and much more evenly than they could spread it. 

Johnson takes the lead, keeping his blacks close to 
the fence and' driving them right over a road's width 
of standing grass. But never mind that. When he 
so has gone once round, he will turn back upon it, and 
his machine will take up and cut all that is now 
being overrun. The other mowers follow in order 
and at short distances apart. Talk about the music 
of the old-fashioned scythe! Clicket-clicket-clicket- 

Mclicket! Only listen to the flying sickles of these 
four mowers as they cut their way through tall 
grass and short alike ! They are the quartette 



60 

of the hayfield singing in unison the song of the 
harvest. 

As to the blinking of dewdrops, who cares for 
them, nowadays? The sooner the sun disposes of 
them, the better. And the birds ? Well, if any lark • 
has foolishly built her nest among the sheltering 
tufts of blue grass, let her make haste to leave it — 
for mowing machines have no hearts of pity for such 
creatures. And woe to the young quails whose wings 
are not yet strong enough to carry them out of the i* 
reach of danger ! It is not likely that any bird dares 
to sing in the midst of this destruction and terror. 
If he does so, his song is unheard. ' 

Each mower has gone seven times round the field. 
The sun pours down scorching hot, turning the cut ic 
grass into hay almost as fast as it falls. The horses 
are reeking with sweat. The men in their comforta- 
ble spring seats are warm and hungry, but not tired 
in the true sense of the word. More than half of the 
thirty acres has been mowed. In a single forenoon 20 
they have done as much as your grandfather and 
three of his mowers, with John Dargan besides, could 
have done in a week — and they have done it better, 
too. 

After a long noon hour they are at it again. And 25 
now comes Patrick and the two big boys with the 
rakes. No miserable hand rakes to blister your palms 




61 

and make your back and shoulders ache — but genu- 
ine horse rakes with a wheel at each end and a nice 
seat for the driver above. One of them 
will pile up more hay in a minute t 

i than you could put together 

with a pitchfork in an hour ; 

and there is no labor about 

it except for the horse. -^ 

See how quickly the long ' 

o windrows are thrown together 
all round the field ! And 
neither the girls nor the ladies have helped. 

What if the barometer is sinking ? Let the mow- 
ers keep on with their work. With all this machin- 

LR ery to help us, we can snap our fingers at the rain. 

And now the great wagons come to the field. 

The horse pitchforks are set to work. The loading 

of the long windrows is the hardest work of all, but 

it is done with speed. The thunder clouds begin to 

a mutter far away in the west. The mowers stop. 
A small square of timothy — three or four acres, 
more or less — is still standing in the center of the 
field; but it will be easy to finish that to-morrow. 
Johnson and the other drivers lead their teams to the 

a bam, and leave off work for the day. What care 
they whether the hay which they have cut be housed 
or not ? That is no part of their business. 



But it 18 safely hoased. The last monster load ia 
driven under the great sheds just as the big drops 
begin to patter down from the clouds. Quick work 
this ! But what may we not do when we have horse 
power and cog wheels and cold iron to help us ? t 

Not much poetry in it, did you say ? Ah, no ! And 
to tell the truth there was not much poetry in the old 
style of haymaking, save to those who stood a good 
distance away and looked on. To the haymakers 
themselves there was more backache than romance, k 
and more weariness than music. And so the world 
ever changes from the old to the new, but who can 
tell whether the former times were better or worse 
than our own? 



THE KV.APER AND THE FLOWERS. 

Among all our American poets no one is more 10 
ivklely known and more generally loved than 
Henry W. Longfellow. The sweetness of his 
ioiLgs and the simple beauty of his ballads 
are a source of never-ceasing delight to all 
classes of readers. Many of his l>e3t «> 
known poems were composed during 
the earlier part of his life, when he ap- 
peared as in this portrait. " The Reaper 
and the Flowers" was written in De- 
cember, 1838, "with peace in my heart, 28 
Bsnry w. LoaghUaw, and not without tears in my eyes," 




} 



68 



There is a Reaper whose name is Death, 

And, with his sickle keen. 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 

And the flowers that grow between. 

^' Shall I have naught that is fair ? " saith he ; 

" Have naught but the bearded grain ? 
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 

I will give them all back againJ 



>> 



He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes. 
He kissed their drooping leaves ; 

It was for the Lord of Paradise 
He bound them in his sheaves. 

" My Lord has need of these flowerets gay 
The Reaper said, and smiled ; 

" Dear tokens of the earth are they, 
Where he was once a child. 

" They shall all bloom in fields of light. 

Transplanted by my care, 
And saints, upon their garments white, 

These sacred blossoms wear." 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain. 
The flowers she most did love ; 

She knew she should find them all again 
In the fields of light above. 



99 

9 




"'Twu *D ugel viiltvd tbs gn«D aanh." 



65 



Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 
The Reaper came that day ; 

'Twas an angel visited the green earth, 
And took the flowers away. 



THE DAY IS DONE. 

5 The day is done, and the darkness 

Falls from the wings of Night, 
As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 
10 Gleam through the rain and mist. 

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me 
That my soul can not resist — 

A feeling of sadness and longing. 
That is not akin to pain, 
15 And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem, 

Some simple and heartfelt lay, 
That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
20 And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 

8CH. READ. IV. — 5 



Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 

For, like strains of martial music, 

Their mighty thoughts suggest 
Life's endless toil and endeavor; mi 

And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart, 

As showers from the clouds of summer, 

Or tears from the eyelids start ; i 

Who, through long days of labor. 

And nights devoid of ease, 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet i— 

The restless pulse of care. 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 20 

And lend to the rhyme of the poet 
The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 

And the cares that infest the day, 
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 25 

And as silently steal away. 



67 

THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. 

I. 

It was not until more than a year after the battle 
of Lexington that the people of the American colo- 
nies began seriously to think of independence from 
Great Britain. True, the laws of the king of Eng- 

'> land had been openly opposed ; an army had been 
formed, with George Washington as commander in 
chief; there had been sharp fighting in more than 
one place, and the British soldiers had been driven 
out of Boston. But the Americans were contending 

L€only for their liberties as British subjects. "Give 
us," said they, " the rights that properly belong to 
us, and we will submit." 

But the king and his counselors refused to listen. 
Matters grew rapidly worse and worse. The breach 

15 between the colonies and the mother country became 
wider and wider every day. Men were everywhere 
losing their feeling of attachment to England. At 
last the question of independence began to be openly 
discussed. 
20 The Continental Congress was sitting in the old 
State House at Philadelphia. The men who com- 
posed it represented the people of the thirteen colo- 
nies; among them were many whose names afterwards 
became famous in the history of our country. They 

25 pondered this question long ; they discussed it in all 



68 

its bearings ; they studied it from every point ol . 
view. To submit, and make peace with Great Britiun 
now, would be but to fasten the chains of slaveiy. 
upon the colonies ; to go on with the conflict might 
result only in disaster. At last, on the 7th of JuiMt^ 5 
1776, Richard Henry Lee arose and, in clear, sharp 
tones that rang into the very street, ofliered this reso- 
lution : "Resolved, That these United Colonies are, 
and ought to be, free and independent States, and 
all political connection between us and the State ol lo 
Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved." 

John Adams seconded the resolution, and at the 
same time made a speech, so full of fervor and pro- 
phetic ardor, that every man who heard him was car- 
ried away by its eloquence. A committee was named ifi 
to write a Declaration of Independence, and further 
action upon the resolution was postponed until the 
1st of July. 

When the appointed day came, Mr. Lee's resolu- 
tion was taken up, in committee of the whole, and 20 
nine colonies agreed to it. On the following day, 
July 2d, the final vote was taken upon it by Congress, 
and all the colonies, except one, voted in favor of it. 

In the meanwhile, on the 28th of June, the Decla- 
ration of Independence had been submitted. It was 25 
the work chiefly of Thomas Jefferson ; but the task 
of urging its adoption by Congress fell mainly upon 



70 

John Adams. No sooner was Mr. Lee's resolution 
disposed of than the Declaration was taken up and 
read. Each article was considered and separately 
discussed. The whole matter was bitterly opposed 
by some of the members ; but after a debate which 5 
lasted for nearly three days, the Declaration, as it 
now stands, was adopted. 

It was signed on the 4th of July, by John Han- 
cock, the president of Congress, and published on the 
same day ; but not until the 2d of August, after it 10 
had been engrossed, were the names of the other 
members affixed to it. 

The famous painting by John Trumbull represents 
the interior of the hall as it was supposed to be at 
the moment when the Declaration was finally passed. 15 
In the president's chair sits John Hancock, before 
him stand Jefferson and Adams and Franklin, while 
around the hall, in dignified silence, sit or stand the 
other delegates from the colonies — great men all, 
whose names will be remembered so long as our 2c 
Republic shall endure. 

II. 

The following story, more fanciful than true, is 
often told of the manner in which the adoption of 
the Declaration was made known to the world : 



71 



There was tumult in the city, 

In the quaint old Quaker town, 
And the streets were rife with people 

Pacing restless up and down : 
People gathering at corners. 

Where they whispered, each to each. 
And the sweat stood on their temples. 

With the earnestness of speech. 

As the bleak Atlantic currents 

Lash the wild Newfoundland shore. 
So they beat against the State House, 

So they surged against the door ; 
And the mingling of their voices 

Made a harmony profound, 
Till the quiet street of chestnuts 

Was all turbulent with sound. 



" Will they do it ? " " Dare they do it ? " 

" Who is speaking ? " " What's the news ? " 
" What of Adams ? " " What of Sherman ? " 

" Oh, God grant they won't refuse ! " 
" Make some way, there ! " " Let me nearer ! " 

" I am stifling ! " " Stifle, then ; 
When a nation's life's at hazard 

We've no time to think of men." 



72 



So they beat against the portal — 

Man and woman, maid and child ; 
And the July sun in heaven 

On the scene looked down and smiled : 
The same sun that saw the Spartan s 

Shed his patriot blood in vain, 
Now beheld the soul of freedom 

All unconquered rise again. 

Aloft in that high steeple 

Sat the bellman, old and gray ; lo 

He was weary of the tyrant 

And his iron-sceptered sway ; 
So he sat with one hand ready 

On the clapper of the bell. 
When his eye should catch the signal, 15 

Very happy news to tell. 

See ! see ! the dense crowd quivers 

Through all its lengthy line, 
As the boy beside the portal 

Looks forth to give the sign ! 20 

With his small hands upward lifted, 

Breezes dallying with his hair, — 
Hark ! with deep clear intonation. 

Breaks his young voice on the air. 



78 



Hushed the people's swelling murmur — 

List the boy's strong joyous cry ! 
" Ring ! " he shouts aloud ; " Ring Grandpa, 

Ring ! Oh, ring for liberty ! " 
And straightway, at the signal, 

The old bellman lifts his hand, 
And sends the good news, making 

Iron music through the land. 

How they shouted ! what rejoicing ! 

How the old bell shook the air. 
Till the clang of freedom ruffled 

The calm gliding Delaware. 
How the bonfires and the torches 

Illumed the night's repose. 
And from the flames, like Phoenix, 

Fair liberty arose ! 

That old bell now is silent. 

And hushed its iron tongue. 
But the spirit it awakened 

Still lives — forever young ! 
We'll ne'er forget the bellman. 

Who, 'twixt the earth and sky. 
Rung out our independence ; 

Which, please God, shall never die ! 




T4 

LITTLE JEAN. 

A Christmas Story. 
I. 

Once upon a time, so long ago that everybody 
has forgotten the date, there was a little boy whose 
name was Jean. He lived with his aunt in a tall 
old house in a city whose name is so hard to pro- 
nounce that nobody can speak it. He was seven 5 
years old, and he could not remember that he 
had ever seen his father or his mother. 
The old aunt who had the care of little Jean was 
very selfish and cross. She gave him dry bread to 
eat, of which there was never enough ; and not more 10 
than once in the year did she speak kindly to him. 

But the poor boy loved this woman, because he 
had no one else to love ; and there Avas never a day 
so dark that he did not think of the sunlight. 

Everybody knew that Jean's aunt owned a house 15 
and had a stocking full of gold under her bed, and 
so she did not dare to send the little boy to the 
school for the poor, as she would have liked to do. 
But a schoolmaster on the next street agreed to 
teach him for almost nothing ; and whenever there 2c 
was work he could do, he was kept at home. 

The schoolmaster had an unkind feeling for Jean, 
because he brought him so little money and was 



75 

dressed so poorly. And so the boy was punished 

very often, and had to bear the blame for all the 

wrong that was done in the school. 

The little fellow was often very sad; and more 
5 than once he hid himself where he could not be seen 

and cried as though his heart would break. But at 

last Christmas came. 

The night before Christmas there was to be sing- 
ing in the church, and the schoolmaster was to be 
10 there with all his boys ; and everybody was to have 

a very happy time looking at the Christmas candles 

and listening to the sweet music. 

The winter had set in, very cold and rough, and 

there was much snow en the ground ; and so the 
15 boys came to the schoolhouse with fur caps drawn 

down over their ears, and heavy coats, and warm 

gloves, and thick high-topped boots. 

But little Jean had no warm clothes. He came 

shivering in the thin coat which he wore on Sundays 
20 in summer ; and there was nothing on his feet but 

coarse stockings very full of holes, and 

a pair of heavy wooden shoes. 

The other boys made many jokes 

about his sad looks and his worn-out clothes. But 
25 the poor child was so busy, blowing his fingers and 

thumping his toes to keep them warm, that he did 

not hear what was said. And when the hour came. 




76 

the whole company of boys, with the schoolmaster at 
the front, started to the church. 

n. 

It was very fine in the church. Hundreds of wax 
candles were burning in their places, and the air was 
so warm that Jean soon forgot his aching fingers. 5 
The boys sat still for a little while ; and then while 
the singing was going on and the organ was making 
loud music, they began in low voices to talk to one 
another; and each told about the fine things that 
were going to be done at his home on the morrow. 10 

The mayor-s son told of a monstrous goose that 
he had seen in the kitchen before he came away; it 
was stuffed, and stuck all over with cloves till it was 
as spotted as a leopard. Another boy whispered of a 
little fir tree in a wooden box in his mother's parlor ; 15 
its branches were full of fruits and nuts and candy 
and beautiful toys. And he said that he was sure of 
a fine dinner, for the cook had pinned the two strings 
of her cap behind her back, as she always did when 
something wonderfully good was coming. 20 

Then the children talked of what Santa Glaus 
would bring them, and of what he would put in their 
shoes, which, of course, they would leave by the fire- 
place when they went to bed. And the eyes of the 
little fellows danced with joy, as they thought of the 26 



77 

bags of candy and the lead soldiers, and the grand 
jumping jacks which they would draw out in the 
morning. 

But little Jean said nothing. He knew that his 

5 selfish old aunt would send him to bed without any 
supper, as she always did. But he felt in his heart 
that he had been all the year as good and kind as he 
could be; and so he hoped that kind Santa Glaus 
would not forget him nor fail to see his wooden shoes 

10 which he would put in the ashes in the corner of the 

fireplace. 

III. 

At last the singing stopped, the organ was silent, 
and the Christmas music was ended. The boys arose 
in order and left the church, two by two, as they 

15 had entered it; and the teacher walked in front. 

Now, as he passed through the door of the church, 
little Jean saw a child sitting on one of the stone 
steps and fast asleep in the midst of the snow. The 
child was thinly clad, and his feet, cold as it was, 

20 were bare. 

In the pale light of the moon, the face of the 
child, with its closed eyes, was full of a sweetness 
which is not of this earth, and his long locks of yel- 
low hair seemed like a golden crown upon his head. 

25 But his poor bare feet, blue in the cold of that winter 
night, were sad to look upon. 



78 



The scholars, so warmly clad, passed before the 
strange child, and did not so much as glance that 
way. But little Jean, who was the last to come out 
of the church, stopped, full of pity, before him. 

" Ah, the poor child ! " he said to himself. " How i 
sad it is that he must go barefoot in such weather as 




Hi> pool bua fwt vtn aad to look upon. 

this! And what is still worse, he has not a stocking, 
nor even a wooden slioe, to lay before him while he 
sleeps, so that kind Santa Glaus can put something 
in it to make him glad when he wakens." u 

Little Jean did not stand long to think about it ; 
but in the goodness of his heart, he took off the 
wooden shoe from his right foot and laid it by the 



79 

side of the sleeping child. Then, limping along 
through the snow, and shivering with cold, he went 
down the street till he came to his cheerless home. 
" You worthless fellow!" cried his aunt. "Where 

5 have you been? What have you done with your 
other shoe?" 

Little Jean trembled now with fear as well as with 
the cold; but he had no thought of deceiving his 
angry aunt. He told her how he had given the shoe 

10 to a child that was poorer than himself. The woman 
laughed an ugly, wicked laugh. 

" And so," she said, " our fine young gentleman 
takes oflf his shoes for beggars ! He gives his wooden 
shoe to a barefoot ! Well, we shall see. You may 

15 put the shoe that is left in the chimney, and, mind 
what I say ! If anything is left in it, it will be a 
switch to whip you with in the morning. To-mor- 
row, for your Christmas dinner, you shall have 
nothing but a hard crust of bread to eat and cold 

20 water to drink. I will show you how to give away 
your shoes to the first beggar that comes along ! " 

The wicked woman struck the boy upon the cheek 
with her hand, and then made him climb up to his bed 
in the loft. Sobbing with grief and pain, little Jean 

25 lay on his hard, cold bed, and did not go to sleep till 
the moon had gone down and the Christmas bells 
had rung in the glad day of peace and good will. 



In the morning when the old woman arose grum- 
bling and went downstairs, a wonderful sight met 
her eyes. The great chimney was full of beautiful 
toys and bags of candy and all kinds of pretty 
k tilings ; and right in the midst of these was the s 
i wooden shoe which Jean had given to the child, 
\ and near it was its mate in which the wicked 
\aunt had meant to put a strong switch. 

The woman was so amazed that she cried out 
and stood still as if in a fright. Little Jean lo 
' heard the cry and ran downstairs as quickly as 
he could to see what was the matter. He, too, 
stopped short when he saw all the beautiful things 
that were in the chimney. But as he stood and 
looked, he heard people laughing in the street, is 
What did it all mean? 

By ttie side of the town pump many of the neigh- 
bors were standing. Each was telling what had 
happened at his home that morning. The boys who 
had rich parents and had been looking for beautiful ao 
gifts, had found only long switches in their shoes. 

But, in the meanwhile, Jean and his aunt stood 

still and looked at the wonderful gifts around the 

two wooden shoes. Who had placed them there ? 

And where now was the kind, good giver? as 

Then, as they still wondered, they heard the voice 



81 • 

of some one reading in the little chapel over the 
way : " Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least 
of these — " And then, in some strange way, they 
understood how it had all come about ; and even the 
heart of the wicked aunt was softened. And their 
eyes were filled with tears and their faces with 
smiles, as they knelt down together and thanked the 
good God for what he had done to reward the kind- 
ness and love of a little child. 

— Adapted from the French of Frangois Copp4e. 



^J«<o«- 



HENRY'S BREAKFAST. 

10 Henry's father was fond of asking him puzzling 
questions. One day he said, " How many people do 
you suppose helped to get the breakfast that you 
ate this morning?" 

"Two," answered Henry, without stopping to 

15 think. " Mother made the coffee, and Mary broiled 
the steak and fried the eggs and did all the rest of 
the work." 

Mr. K. Yes, but that was only a small part of 
what was done in order that you might begin the 

20 day with a good, wholesome meal. Many people 
whom you never saw were at work weeks and 
months ago, helping to get that breakfast. 

8CH. READ. IV. — 6 



Henry. I don't see how that could be. 
Mr. K. Well, let us begin with the coffee. 
Henry. Yes, Mother made that. 
Mr. K. She only made it ready for you to drink. 
Away off in the southern part of Arabia, or per- b 
' . haps it was in the sunny land of Brazil, a young 
^ " man gathered and dried the berries of which 
the coffee was made. Another man carried the 
3£>' coffee berries to market ; a trader in coffee 
t' bought them ; one of his servants packed them, lo 
with more than a bushel of such grains, in a 
strong coffee sack; a sailor carried tlie coffee 
on board of a ship, and another sailor took it 
down into the ship's hold. The ship sailed across 
the sea, and after it had reached New York the is 
coffee was taken out of the hold, and other men 
carried it to the shore. A truckman hauled the 
bags away from the wharf, a commission merchant's 
workmen stored them in a warehouse. By and 
by the village grocer bought some of the coffee, 20 
and among it were the very berries that were used 
for you this morning. The expressman carried it 
to the grocery store ; the grocer's clerk ground the 
berries in his coffee mill ; and the grocer's boy 
brought the pulverized coffee to your mother yester- as 
day. Now, how many persons helped to make your 
coffee and get it ready for you to drink ? 




Henry. Fourteen or fifteen, besides mother. 
Mr. K. But you have not counted all. Your 
coffee was made up in large part of water which 
somehody must have drawn up from the 

5 well or forced through the water pipes 
from the waterworks. It also contained 
milk or cream, which the milkman brought 
to the door. 

Henry. Oh, yes, I see. And there was 

10 sugar in it, too, which came from — ^~j i ■ 
from- •^*' 

Mr. K. The sugar came from Louisiana, or it 
may be from Cuba. A good many people took part 
in the making of that sugar. One man planted and 

16 cultivated the sugar cane ; another cut it, and hauled 
it to the mill ; a third passed it through great rollers 
which squeezed all the juice out of it ; a fourth 
saw that the juice was emptied into boilers or 
evaporating pans; a fifth kept the fire bum- 

ao ing underneath the boilers ; a sixth drained 
off the sirup from the granulated sugar; a 
seventh put the sugar into a barrel and made it 
ready for shipment ; an eighth rolled the barrel into 
a wagon ; and a ninth hauled it to the wharf at the 

25 bank of the river. Indeed, it would be hard to say 
how many people, first and last, helped you to that 
spoonful of sugar. At least fifty, I should say. 




84 

Henry. And all that labor for a cup of coffee ! I 
never thought of it before. 

Mr- K. All that, and more too ! If we knew 
the entire history of the coffee which you drank so 
thoughtlessly and yet with so ranch relish, we should 5 
find that it required the labor of several hundred 
persons to make it ready and bring it to you. 

Henry. Mary brought it to me. But the coffee 
was only a small part of my breakfast. 

Mr. K. True ! There was the bread. It was made w 
■f J from wheat which I suppose grew in Dakota. 
Think of the man that sowed the wheat, of him 
that reaped it, of him that threshed it, of him 
that hauled it to market — and then of the 
millers and merchants and grocers and bakers u 
- who ground it and bought and sold the flour 
and prepared it for your use. You may count 
' them for yourself if you can. 
Henry. I am sure I could never count them. But, 
now that I think of it, there were the baking powder a 
and the salt. It must have taken a good many men 
to make them, too. 

Mr. K. There is no doubt about it. Then, be- 
sides the coffee and the bread, there is the beefsteak 
which Mary broiled so nicely for you. A few weeks 2: 
ago it was a part of a hving animal roaming at will 
, in the grassy fields. How many people do you 



think were engaged, first in taking care of the ox, 
and then in preparing hia flesh and bringing it to us, 
all ready for the broiling ? 

Henry. I should think fifty, at least, 
i Mr. K. Then, you had potatoes, didn't you? 
The gardener brought them in from his own fields, 
and so they did not pass through very niaiiy 
hands. You have already spoken of the 



10 wells of Michigan, or of New York, and W' S 
many men found work in the making of 
it. The pepper with which you seasoned 
your potatoes was brought from the East 
Indies, on the other side of the world. 

u Henry. It makes me feel quite rich to think that 
so many people have been at work getting things 
for my breakfast. 

Mr. K. Yes ; you might say that you have ser- 
vants in every part of the world, and that more 

20 than a thousand persons whom you never saw are 
busy every day, preparing and getting together and 
carrying the good things that you use for food. 

Henry. But tbey work for other people as well as 
for me. Indeed, it seems as if everybody is working 

2S for everybody else, 

Mr. K. It is just so. And if we should speak of 
your clothing and of your books and of your amuse- 





86 

ments, we might number your servants by the tens 
of thousands. Here, indeed, is the great difference 
between a civilized people and a barbarous people. 
In civilized life everybody is served by every- 
body else. But the savage does everything for 5 
himself. He raises his own corn, he prepares 
his own food, he makes his own clothing, he 
builds his own house. His wants are few and 
simple. He has no servant but himself. 

Henry, Haven't you forgotten his poor wife ? I lo 
have heard that she is his servant. 

Mr, K. That is true. In fact, she does the greater 
part of his work, and she alone gets his breakfast. 
There is nobody on the other side of the w^orld pick- 
ing coffee berries for him. No ships are sailing i^ 
across the sea to bring him spices and sugar. No 
steam cars are hurrying over the land, laden with 
bread and meat for him. Do you think that he can 
enjoy his breakfast as well as you do yours? 

Henry. I don't see how he can. ^ 

Mr, K. Well, a great deal depends upon what a 
person is accustomed to. The savage has never 
known anything about the luxuries which we have, 
and he would not know how to use them if he had 
them. He enjoys himself in his own rude way ; but 26 
his pleasures are few and selfish, and he knows 
nothing of the real joys of life. 



87 



WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 

Woodman, spare that tree ! 

Touch not a single bough ! 
In youth it sheltered me, 

And ril protect it now. 
'Twas my forefather's hand 

That placed it near his cot ; 
There, woodman, let it stand. 

Thy ax shall harm it not ! 

That old familiar tree, 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o'er land and sea, 

And wouldst thou hew it down? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 
Oh, spare that aged oak 

Now towering to the skies ! 

When but an idle boy, 

I sought its grateful shade ; 
In all their gushing joy 

Here too my sisters played. 
My mother kissed me here ; 

My father pressed my hand ; 
Forgive this foolish tear. 

But let that old oak stand. 



88 



My heartstrings round thee cling, 

Close as thy bark, old friend ! 
Here shall the wild bird sing, 

And still thy branches bend. 
Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 

And, woodman, leave the spot ; 
While I've a hand to save. 

Thy ax shall harm it not. 



A LEAP FOR LIFE. 

Old Ironsides at anchor lay 

In the harbor of Mah6n ; 
A dead calm rested on the bay. 

The waves to sleep had gone, 
When little Jack, the captain's son. 

With gallant hardihood. 
Climbed shroud and spar, and then upon 

The main truck rose and stood. 

A shudder ran through every vein. 

All eyes were turned on high ; 
There stood the boy with dizzy brain 

Between the sea and sky. 
No hold had he above, below ; 

Alone he stood in ^iv ! 
At that far height none dared to go. 

No aid could reach him there. 



89 



We gazed, but not a man could speak ; 

With horror all aghast. 
In groups, with pallid brow and cheek, 

We watched the quivering mast. 
The atmosphere grew thick and hot, 

And of a lurid hue, 
As, riveted fast to the spot, 

Stood ofl&cers and crew. 

The father came on deck. He gasped, 

" God, thy will be done ! " 
Then suddenly a rifle grasped. 

And aimed it at his son. 
"Jump far out, boy, into the wave. 

Jump, or I fire ! " he said. 
" That chance alone your life can save ; 

Jump ! jump, boy ! " — He obeyed. 

He sank, — he rose, — he lived, — he moved, - 

He for the ship struck out. 
On board we hailed the lad beloved 

With many a joyous shout. 
His father drew, in silent joy. 

Those wet arms round his neck. 
Then folded to his heart the boy, 

And fainted on the deck. 

— George P. Morris, 



THE STAGECOACH. 

I. 

Eighty years ago there were no such thipgs as 

railroads ; and so, when Tom Brown was sent down 

to Rugby to the famous boys' school which is there, 

he had to ride in a stagecoach. The story of his 




The ooaobiMD gMber op thei 



journey is told in a delightful book called " Tom j 
Brown's School Days." This book, which has given 
pleasure to many thousands of young readers, was 
written by Thomas Hughes, an Englishman ; and 
the story of the ride to Rugby is about as follows : 



It is three o'clock in the morning of a November lo 
day, and Tom Brown and his father are in a little 



91 

wayside tavern waiting for the fast coach that is 
expected to pass some time before daylight. Tom's 
father has ordered a luncheon to be served, and their 
last hour together has passed very pleasantly. 
6 The lad has swallowed his last mouthful, and is 
winding his comforter round his throat and tucking 
the ends into the breast of his coat, when the sound 
of the horn is heard. The next moment they hear 
the ring and the rattle of the four fast trotters and 
10 the town-made coach as they dash up to the door 
of the tavern. 

"Anything for us. Bob?" says the burly guard, 
dropping down from behind and swinging his arms 
to keep warm. 
15 " Young gentleman, Rugby ; three parcels, Leices- 
ter ; hamper of game, Rugby," is the answer. 

" Tell the young gent to look alive," says the 
guard, throwing in the parcels. *'Here, make a 
place for this satchel up a-top — I'll fasten it soon. 
20 Now then, sir, jump up behind." 

"Good-bye, father — my love at home." 

A last shake of the hand. 

Up goes Tom, the guard catching his hat box and 
holding on with one hand, while with the other he 
26 claps the horn to his mouth. 

Toot, toot, toot! the four bays plunge forward, 
and away goes the tallyho into the darkness. 



92 

Tom stands up on the coach and looks back at his 
father as long as he can see him there under the 
flaring tavern lamp. He wonders if the folks at 
home have already begun to miss him. Then he 
settles himself in his seat, and finishes his buttonings 5 
and other preparations for facing the three hom-s 
before dawn ; — no joke for those who cared for the 
cold, this riding on a fast coach in chilly November. 

But it had its pleasures, the old dark ride. For 
there was the music of the rattling harness, and the 10 
ring of the horses' feet on the hard road, and the 
glare of the two bright lamps through the steaming 
frost, and the cheery toot of the guard's horn, and 
the looking forward to daylight, and last, but not 
least, the delight of having the feeling return to 15 
your numbed toes which you thought had certainly 
been frozen oflf your feet. Then the break of dawn, 
and the sunrise ; where can they ever be seen so well 
as from the roof of a stagecoach ? 

And now the tall3^ho is past St. Alban's, and Tom 20 
is enjoying the ride, though half-frozen. The guard, 
who is alone with him on the back of the coach, is 
silent, but has muffled Tom's feet up in straw, and 
put the end of an oat sack over his knees. In the 
darkness, Tom has gone over his little past life, and 25 
thought of all his doings and promises, and of his 
mother and sister, and his father's last words. He 



has made fifty good reaoliitions, and means to bear 
himself like a brave Brown as he is, although a young 
one. He is full of hope and life, in spite of the 
cold, and kicks his heels against the A 
■ back board, and would like to sing ' 
only he doesn't know how his friend 
the guard might take it. 



And now the dawn breaks, and 
the coach pulls up at a little road 

JO side inn with huge stables behind 
There is a bright fire gleaming 
through the red curtains of the win 
dows, and the door is open. The 
coachman catches his whip into a 

ifi double thong and throws it aside ' 

the steam of the horses rises straight '' 

up into the air. He has put them along fast, over 
the last two miles, and is two minutes before his 
time ; he rolls down from the box and into the inn. 

20 The guard rolls off behind. " Now, sir," says he 
to Tom, "you just jump down and warm yourself up 
a bit ! ". . . 

But they are soon out again, and up. The coach- 
man comes last, swinging himself up on to the box 

29 — the horses dashing off in a canter before he falls 




94 

into hU seat. Toot, toot, toot ! goes the horn, and 
away they are again, five and thirty miles on their 
road, and the prospect of a warm breakfast soon. 

Now it is hght enough to see, and the early life of 
the country comes out — a market cart or two, men b 
going to their work pipe in mouth, a pack of hounds 
jogging along at the heels of a huntsman. 

The sun comes up, and the mist shines like silver 
gauze. An up coach meets them, and the coachmen 
gather up their horses and pass one another with an 
lift of the elbow, each team going eleven mUes an 
hour, with a mile to spare behind if necessary. 

And here comes breakfast. 



*' Twenty minutes here, gentlemen ! " says the 
coachman, as they pull up at half-past seven atv 
the mn door. 

There is the low wainscoted room 
hung with sporting prints ; the hat- 
stand by the door ; the blazing fire ; the 
table covered with the whitest of cloths 9 
and china, and bearing a pigeon pie, a 
ham, a round of cold boiled beef, and 
the great loaf of household bread on 
a wooden trencher. And here comes 
the stout head waiter puffing under a tray of hot* 




95 

foods : chops and steaks, poached eggs, buttered toast 
and muffins, coffee and tea, — all smoking hot. 

The table can never hold it all ; the cold meats 
are taken away — they were only put on for show 
i and to give us an appetite. And now fall on, 
gentlemen, fall on ! 

" Tea or coffee, sir ? " says the head waiter, com- 
ing round to Tom. 
" Coffee, please," says Tom, with his mouth full of 
» muffin and chops. 

Our coachman, who breakfasts with us, is a cold- 
beet man, and he shuns all hot drinks. He must 
keep his nerves in trim for the long drive that is 
still before him. Tom lias eaten of the 
ispigeon pie, and drank coffee, till his little i K*J^%|]^'{ 



m. 



skin is as tight as a drum. Then 1 

has the further pleasure of paying th 

head waiter out of his own purse, afte: 

which he walks out and stands before 
'"the inn door to see the horses put to 

the coach. No hurry about this. The 

coachman comes out with his waybill ; 

and the guard is soon there, too. 

"Now, sir, please ! " says the coachman. All the 

* passengers are up; the guard is shutting the door. 

The horses are impatient to be going. 
" Let 'em go, Dick ! " 




Away we fly through the market place and down 
the High Street, looking in at the first-floor windows, 
and seeing several worthy gentlemen shaving before 
them. And, as we rattle past, all the shopboys who 
are cleaning the windows, and the housemaids who 
are washing the steps, stop and look pleased as if 
we were a part of their morning's amusement. 

We clear the town, and are well out between the 
hedgerows as the town clock strikes eight. Before 
noon, we shall be in Rugby. jt 



THE ENGLISH SLAVE BOYS IN ROME. 

I, 

^♦^ \Vhen the English people first settled in the 
^^a 's'^"d which is now called England, they were 
little better than savages. They were a 
heathen people, and worshiped Odin and 
Thor, and had many rude and cruel cus-"' 
toms. This was more than fourteen hun- 
I dred years ago. 

It so happened that, some time later, 
there was living in Rome a good and kind 
priest whose name was Gregory. As this* 
^°^' priest was one day walking in the market 
place, he stopped to see some men, women, and 




children who had been brought from a distant 
land and were to be sold as slaves. Among them 
were some beautiful boys, with fair skin and long 
fair hair. Their looks so pleased him that he could 
not pass them by. He asked from what part of the 
world they came, and whether they were Christians 
or heathen. He was told that they were heathen 
boys from the islandof Britain. Gregory was sorry 
to think that forms so fair without should have no 

light witliin, and he again asked what was |^. 
the name of their nation. 

"They are Angles," was the answer — 
for that was the old form of the word 
English. 

"Angels ! " cried Gregory ; " they have the 
faces of angels, and they ought to be made .W 
fellow heirs of the angels in heaven. But ri 
what is the name of their king?" 

"He is called jElla," said one who stood by. 

1 " ^lla ! Surely, then, Alleluia must be sung in 
his land." 

Gregory then went to the Pope and asked if he 
would not let him go to England to convert the 
Angles who lived there. The Pope was willing ; 
1 but the people loved Gregory so much that they 
would not agree to part with him. So nothing 
came of the matter for some time. 




Away we fly through the market place and down 
the High Street, looking in at the first-floor windows, 
and seeing several worthy gentlemen shaving before 
them. And, as we rattle past, all the shopboys who 
are cleaning the windows, and the housemaids who s 
are washing the steps, stop and look pleased as if 
we were a part of their morning's amusement. 

We clear the town, and are well out between the 
hedgerows as the town clock strikes eight. Before 
noon, we shall be in Rugby. lo 



THE ENGLISH SLAVE BOYS IN ROME. 



When the English people first settled in the 
ishmd which is now called England, they were 
little better than savages. They were a 
heathen people, and worshiped Odin and 
Thor, and had many rude and cruel cus- lo 
toms. This was more than fourteen hun- 
I dred years ago. 

It so happened that, some time later, 
" there was living in Rome a good and kind 
priest whose name was Gregory. As this so 
priest was one day walking in the market 
place, he stopped to see some men, women, and 




97 

children who had been brought from a distant 
land and were to be sold as slaves. Among them 
were some beautiful boys, with fair skin and long 
fair hair. Their looks so pleased him that he could 

s not pass them by. He asked from what part of the 
world they came, and whether they were Christians 
or heathen. He was told that they were heathen 
boys from the island-of Britain. Gregory was sorry 
to think that forms so fair without should have no 

10 light within, and he again asked what whs 
the name of their nation. 

"They are Angles," was the answer — 
for that waa the old form of the word 
English. 

13 "Angels ! " cried Gregory ; " they have the 
faces of angels, and they ought to be made 
fellow heirs of the angels in heaven. But 
what is the name of their king ? " 

" He is called JE\\&," said one who stood by. 

20 " --Ella ! Surely, then, Alleluia must be sung in 
his land." 

Gregory then went to the Pope and asked if he 
would not let him go to England to convert the 
Angles who lived there. The Pope was wUling ; 

3B but the people loved Gregory so much that they 
would not agree to part with him. So nothing 
came of the matter for some time. 




98 



n. 

We do not know whether Gregory was ever able 
to do anything for the poor little English boys, but 
we may be sure that he did not forget his plan of 
converting the English people. After a while he 5 
became pope himself. Of course he now no longer 
thought of going to Britain himself, for he had 
enough to do at Rome. But he could send others. 

At last a company of monks was sent out, with 
one called Augustine at their head. This was inio 
the year 597. At that time England was not a 
single great nation as it is now. It was divided into 
several small kingdoms, and these were nearly all the 
time at war. One of these kingdoms was Kent, in 
the southeastern part of the island, and its king, is 
whose name was Ethelbert, had made himself master 
of nearly all the other kings. 

This Ethelbert had done what no English king 
had done before : he had married a foreign wife, the 
daughter of one of the kings of the Franks, who 20 
lived in the country now called France. Now the 
Franks had long been Christians ; and when Ethel- 
bert's young queen went over into Kent, it was 
agreed that she might keep her own religion. So 
she took with her a Frankish bishop, and she and 25 
her bishop used to worship God in a little church 
near Canterbury, called Saint Martins. 



99 

So King Ethelbert and his people must have known 

something about the Christian faith before Augustine 

came. One would suppose that it would have been 

easier for the queen's bishop to convert them than 

$ for Augustine to do so. But perhaps they did not 

think that a man who had come only as a kind of 

servant to the queen, was so well worth listening to 

as one who had come all the way from the great 

city of Rome. 

10 Augustine and his companions landed first in the 

Isle of Thanet, which is close to the eastern shore 

of Kent, and thence they sent a message to King 

Ethelbert saying why they had come into his land. 

The king sent word back to them to stay in the 

15 isle till he had fully made up his mind how to treat 

them ; and he gave orders that they should be well 

taken care of meanwhile. 

After a while he came himself into the isle, and 
bade them tell him what they had to say. He 
20 met them in the open air; for he would not meet 
them in a house, as he thought they might be wiz- 
ards, and might use some charm or spell, which 
would have less power out of doors. So they 
came, carrying a cross wrought in silver, and sing- 
26ing hymns as they came. And when they came 
before the king, they preached to him and to those 
who were with him, telling them, no doubt, how 



100 

there was one God, who had made all things, and 
how He had sent His son to die for mankind. 

King Ethelbert hearkened to them, and then made 
answer like a good and wise man. 

" Your words and promises," said he, " sound very s 
good unto me ; but they are new and strange, and I 
can not believe them all at once, nor can I leave all 
that I and my fathers have believed so long. But I 
see that you have come from a far country to tell 
us that which you believe to be true; so you mayio 
stay in the land, and I will give you a house to 
dwell in and food to eat ; and you may preach to 
my folk, and if any man of them will believe as you 
believe, I will hinder him not." 

So he gave them a house to dwell in in the royal 15 
city of Canterbury, and he let them preach to the 
people. And, as they drew near the city, they sang 
hymns and said : " We pray Thee, Lord, let Thy 
wrath be turned away from this city, and from Thy 
holy house, because we have sinned. Alleluia ! " 20 

Thus Augustine and his companions dwelt at Can- 
terbury, and preached to the men of the land. And 
many men hearkened to them, and before long King 
Ethelbert himself believed and was baptized; and 
before the year was out more than ten thousand of 26 
the people had become Christians. 

— Adapted from Edward A, Freeman. 



101 



THE UPRISING — 1775. 

The first battle in the war for independence was fought at 
Lexington and Concord, in Massachusetts, April 19, 1775. 
Although there were no telegraph lines at that time, and no 
means of sending letters rapidly from place to place, the news 

5 of this battle spread like wildfire to all parts of the country. 
The patriotic spirit of the people was roused. Farmers left 
their plows, merchants and shopkeepers left their business — 
there was a general uprising throughout the land to oppose 
the unjust laws of the English king, and to drive his soldiers 

10 from American soil. In this poem, which is extracted from 
a longer poem entitled " The Wagoner of the Alleghanies," 
Thomas Buchanan Read narrates an incident which is sup- 
posed to have occurred at that time in Virginia. 

Out of the North the wild news came, 
16 Far flashing on its wings of flame, 
Swift as the boreal light which flies 
At midnight through the startled skies. 

And there was tumult in the air, 

The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, 

^ And through the wide land everywhere 
The answering tread of hurrying feet, 
While the first oath of Freedom's gun 
Came on the blast from Lexington ; 
And Concord, roused, no longer tame, 

25 Forgot her old baptismal name. 

Made bare her patriot arm of power. 
And swelled the discord of the hour. 



102 



Within its shade of elm and oak 

The church of Berkeley Manor stood : 
There Sunday found the rural folk, 

And some esteemed of gentle blood. 
. In vain their feet with loitering tread 5 

Passed mid the graves where rank is naught ; 

All could not read the lesson taught 
In that republic of the dead. 



10 



The pastor rose : the prayer was strong ; 

The psalm was warrior David's song ; 

The text, a few short words of might, — 

" The Lord of hosts shall arm the right ! ** 

He spoke of wrongs too long endured, 

Of sacred rights to be secured ; 

Then from his patriot tongue of flame is 

The startling words for Freedom came, 

The stirring sentences he spake 

Compelled the heart to glow or quake ; 

And, rising on his theme's broad wing, 

And grasping in his nervous hand 20 

The imaginary battle brand. 
In face of death he dared to fling 
Defiance to a tyrant king. 
Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed 
In eloquence of attitude, 26 

Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher ; 



108 

Then swept hU kindling glance of fire 
From startled pew to breathless choir ; 
When suddenly his mantle wide 
His hands impatient flung aside, 
And, lo ! he met their wondering eyes 
Complete in all a warrior's guise. 




" Wlun Ood ii iritli ota righWou 



A moment there was awful pause, — 

When Berkeley cried, " Cease, traitor ! cease ! 
God's temple is the house of peace ! " 
The other shouted, " Nay, not so, 
When God is with our righteous cause : 
His holiest places then are ours, 
His temples are our forts and towers 



104 



That frown upon a tyrant foe : 

In this the dawn of Freedom's day . , 

There is a time to fight and pray ! " 

And now before the open door — 

The warrior priest had ordered so — 
The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar 
Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, 

Its long reverberating blow, 
So loud and clear, it seemed the ear 
Of dusty death must wake and hear. 
And then- the startling drum and fife 
Fired the living with fiercer life ; 
While overhead with wild increase. 
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace. 

The great bell swung as ne'er before : 
It seemed as it would never cease ; 
And every word its ardor flung 
From off its jubilant iron tongue 

Was, "War! War! War!" 

" Who dares " — this was the patriot's cry, 
As striding from the desk he came — 
" Come out with me in Freedom's name. 
For her to live, for her to die ? " 
A hundred hands flung up reply, 
A hundred voices answered "II" 



105 



SIF'S GOLDEN HAIR. 

I. THE MISCHIEF-MAKER. 

This is a story which the people in the far North, 

a long time ago, delighted to listen to when sitting 

before their fires on cold 

winter days. It made 

5 the TO think of the warm 

spring weather that was 

corning by and by, of the 

green grass that would 

cover the meadows, and 

10 more than all of the 

golden harvest that would 

crown the summer time. 

For Sif was the queen of 

the fields and of the 

IS gi^owing grain, just as hev 

husband, rough old Thor, 

Was the lord of the storm 

clouds and the thunder; and 

people said that she was as 
JO gentle and kind as he was rude 

and strong. 
Sif was very fair ; and there was one thing of 

which she was a trifle vain. That was her long silken 

hair, which fell in glossy waves almost to her feet. 
26 On calm, warm days she liked to sit on the bank 




106 

of some still pool and gaze at her own beauty pic- 
tured in the water below, while she combed and 
braided her flowing tresses; and in all the world 
there was nothing so much like golden sunbeams as 
the hair of which she was so proud. 6 

At that time there was living in the same coun- 
try a cunning mischief-maker called Loki, who was 
never pleased save when he was plotting trouble for 
some one who was better than himself. He liked 
to meddle with business which was not his own. lo 
His tricks and jokes were seldom of the harmless 
kind, although great good . sometimes grew out of 
them. 

When Loki saw how proud Sif was of her long 
hair, and how much time she spent in combing and i5 
arranging it, he planned a very cruel piece of mis- 
chief. One day he hid himself among the rocks 
near the pool where Sif was sitting, and slyly 
watched her all the morning as she braided and 
unbraided those wonderful silken tresses. At last, 20 
overcome by the warmth of the noonday sun, Sif 
fell asleep upon the grassy bank. Then Loki 
quietly crept near, and with his sharp shears cut 
off all that wealth of hair, and shaved her head 
until it was as smooth as her snow-white hand. 25 
Then he hid himself again, and chuckled with great 
glee at the wicked thing he had done. 



107 

By and by Sif awoke, and looked into the water; 
but she started back. with horror and affright at the 
image which she saw there. She felt of her shorn 
head; and, when she knew that that which had 

5 been her joy and her pride was no longer there, 
she knew not what to do. Hot, scalding tears ran 
down her cheeks, and with sobs and shrieks she 
began to call loudly for Thor. Forthwith there 
was a terrible uproar. The lightning flashed, the 

10 thunder rolled, and an earthquake shook the rocks 
arid trees. Loki, looking out from his hiding 
place, saw that Thor was coming, and he trembled 
with fear ; for he knew that should the great 
thunderer catch him, he would have to pay dearly 

16 for his sport. He ran quickly to the river, leaped 
in, changed himself to a salmon, and swam away. 

But Thor was not so easily deceived ; for he had 
long known Loki, and understood all his cunning. 
So when he saw Sif bewailing her stolen hair and 

20 beheld the salmon hurrying alone towards the deep 
water, he was at no loss to understand what had hap- 
pened. Straightway he took upon himself the form 
of a sea gull, and soared high up over the water. 
Then, poising a moment in the air, he darted, swift 

26 as an arrow, down into the river. When he rose 
from the water, he held the struggling salmon tightly 
grasped in his strong talons. 



108 

" Vile mischief-maker ! " cried Thor, as he 
alighted upon the top of a neighboring crag. ^^I 
know thee, and I will make thee rue the work of 
this day." 

When Loki saw that he was known and that he i ^ 
dould not by any means get away from his angry 
captor, he changed himself back to his own form, 
and humbly said to Thor : 

" What if you should do your worst with me ? 
Will that give back a single hair to Sif's shorn lo 
head ? What I did was only in fun, and I realty 
meant no harm. I pray you, spare my life, and 
I will more than make good the mischief I have 
done." 

" How can that be ? " asked Thor. i5 

" I will hasten to the secret smithies of the dwarfs," 
answered Loki ; " and I will persuade those cunning 
little kinsmen of mine to make golden tresses for 
Sif, which will grow upon her head like real hair, 
and cause her to be an hundred-fold more beautiful 2( 
than before." 

Thor knew that Loki did not always do as he 
promised, and hence he would not let him go. 
He called to his cousin Frey, who had just come up, 
and said : 21 

'' Come, cousin, help me to rid the world of this 
sly thief. While I hold fast to his hair and his 



Ill 



"I do not work in gold. Go to Ivald's sons; 
they will make whatever you wish." 

To Ivald's sons, then, in the farthest and brightest 
corner of the hall, Loki went. They very readily 
5 agreed to make the golden hair for Sif, and they 
began to work at once. A lump of purest gold was 
brought and thrown into the glowing furnace ; and 
it was melted and drawn, and melted and drawn, 
seven times. Then it was given to a merry brown 
10 elf, who carried it with all speed to another part of 
the hall, where the dwarfs' pretty wives were spin- 
ning. One of the little women took the yellow lump 
from the elf's hands and placed it, like flax, upon the 
distaff of her spinning wheel. Then she sat down 
16 and began to spin ; and while she span, the dwarf 
wives sang a strange, sweet song of the old, old days 
when the dwarf folk ruled the world. And tiny 
brown elves danced gleefully around the spinner, and 
the thousand little anvils rang out a merry chorus to 
20 the music of the singers. 

And the yellow gold was twisted into threads, and 

the threads ran into hair softer than silk and finer 

^han gossamer. And at last the dwarf woman held 

^n her hand long golden tresses ten times more beau- 

^ tif ul than the amber locks Loki had cut from Sif 's 

pi'etty head. Then Ivald's sons, proud of their skill, 

g^ve the treasure to the mischief-maker, who smiled 



and brighter than the day ; for on every side were 
glowing fires, roaring in wonderful little forges and 
blown by wonderful little bellows. 

The roof of the cavern was thickly set with diar 
monds and other precious stones, which sparkled and ^ 
shone like thousands of bright stars in the blue sky. 
And hundreds of busy dwarfs, with comical brown 
faces, and wearing strange leathern aprons, and 
carrying heavy sledge hammers or long crooked tongs, 
were hurrying hither and thither, each busy at hisio 
own task. Some were smelting gold from the rocks ; 
others were making gems and jewels, such as the 
proudest lady in the land would have been glad to 
wear. Here, one was shaping pure, round pearls 
from dewdrops and maidens' tears; there, another i5 
wrought green emeralds from the first leaves of 
spring. So busy were they all, that they neither 
stopped nor looked up when Loki came into their 
midst, but all kept on hammering and blowing and 
working, as if their lives depended on their being 2( 
always in motion. 

After Loki had curiously watched their movements 
for some time, he spoke to the dwarf whose forge 
was nearest to him, and made known his errand. 
But the little fellow was fashioning a diamond which 21 
he called the Mountain of Light; and he scarcely 
looked up as he answered : 



113 

"We can not make it now/' said the elder of 
Ivald's sons. " For who would dare send a present 
to Thor before offering one to Odin, who is greater 
than he ? " 

" Make me, then, a gift for Odin," cried Loki ; 
" and perhaps he will save me from the Thun- 
derer's wrath." 

So the dwarfs put iron into their furnace, and 
heated it to a glowing white heat. Then they drew 
it out and rolled it upon their anvils, and pounded it 
with their sledges, till they had wrought a wondrous 
spear, such as no man had ever seen. Then they 
inlaid it with priceless jewels, and plated the point 
with gold seven times tried. 

" This is the spear called Gungner," said they. 
"Take it to mighty Odin as the best gift that we 
humble earth workers can send." 

" Make now a present for gentle Frey," said Loki. 
" I have promised to take him a steed that will bear 
him swiftly wherever he wants to ride." 

Ivald's sons again threw gold into the furnace, and 
blew with their bellows till the very roof of the cave 
hall seemed to tremble, and the smoke rolled up the 
wide chimney, and poured in dense black clouds from 
the mountain top. When they left off working, and 
the fire died away, a fairy ship, with masts and sails 
and two banks of long oars, rose out of the glow- 
sen. READ. IX. 8 



as if he were well pleased ; but in his heart he was 
angry because the dwarfs had made so fair a piece of 
workmanship. 




It down and bvgui to ipln. 



Thi-t IS indeed 
handsnme, siid he, e 
" and will be veiy becoming 
to the queen of the fields. 
Ah, but wasn't there an up- 
roar about those flaxen tresses of which she was so 
proud ? And that reminds me that her husband, gruff « 
old Thor, wants a hammer. I promised to get him 
one, and if I go back without it, I fear he will be 
rude to me. I pray you to make a hammer, such as 
will be of use to him in killing giants, and allow me 
to take it to him as a present from you," n 



113 

"We can not make it now/' said the elder of 
Ivald's sons. " For who would dare send a present 
to Thor before offering one to Odin, who is greater 
than he ? " 
' ^^Make me, then, a gift for Odin," cried Loki; 
^^and perhaps he will save me from the Thun- 
derer's wrath." 

So the dwarfs put iron into their furnace, and 
heated it to a glowing white heat. Then they drew 
*^ it out and rolled it upon their anvils, and pounded it 
with their sledges, till they had wrought a wondrous 
spear, such as no man had ever seen. Then they 
inlaid it with priceless jewels, and plated the point 
with gold seven times tried. 
15 " This is the spear called Gungner," said they. 
"Take it to mighty Odin as the best gift that we 
humble earth workers can send." 

" Make now a present for gentle Frey," said Loki. 
" I have promised to take him a steed that will bear 
20 him swiftly wherever he wants to ride." 

Ivald's sons again threw gold into the furnace, and 
blew with their bellows till the very roof of the cave 
hall seemed to tremble, and the smoke rolled up the 
wide chimney, and poured in dense black clouds from 
25 the mountain top. When they left off working, and 
the fire died away, a fairy ship, with masts and sails 
and two banks of long oars, rose out of the glow- 
sen. READ. IV. 8 



114 

ing coals ; and it grew in size till it filled the greater 
part of the hall and might have furnished room 
for a thousand warriors and their steeds to stand 
in its hold. Then, at a word from the dwarfs, it 
began to shrink, and it became smaller and smaller 5 
till it was no broader than an oak leaf. 

And the younger of Ivald s sons folded it up like a 
napkin, and gave it to Loki, saying : 

" Take this to Frey, the gentle. It is the ship 
Skidbladner. When it is wanted for a voyage, 10 
it will carry Frey and all his friends. But, when 
it is not needed, he may fold it up, as I have done, 
and carry it in his pocket." 

" But I promised him a horse," said Loki. 

^^And we send him a horse," answered the dwarf 1.1 
— "a horse of the sea." 

Although much disappointed because he had 
gotten no present for Thor, Loki thanked the dwarfs 
very heartily ; and taking the golden hair and the 
spear and the ship, he started for home. 20 



III. THE GlITTS OF THE ELVES. 

Just before he reached the narrow doorway which 
led out of the cavern, Loki met two elves much 
smaller and much darker than any he had seen 
before. 



115 

"What have you there?'' asked one of them, 
whose name was Brok. 

"Hair for Sif, a spear for Odin, and a ship for 
Frey/' answered the mischief-maker. 
6 " Let us see them/' said Brok. 

Loki kindly showed them the strange gifts, and 
told them that it was his belief that there was no 
dwarf nor elf in all the world that had ever made 
anything more wonderful. 
lo '^ Who made these things ? " inquired Brok. 

" Ivald's sons." 

" Ah ! Ivald's sons sometimes do good work, but 

there are others among us who can do better. My 

brother Sindre, who stands here, can make three 

16 other treasures much more wonderful than these." 

" He can not ! " cried Loki. 

" What will you wager that he can not ? " asked 
Brok. "What will you wager against all the dia- 
monds in the ceiling above us ? " 
20 "What will I wager? Why, I will wager my 
head that Sindre can do no such thing." 

The three went straightway to Sindre's forge, and 
the elf began his task. When the fire was roaring 
hot and the sparks flew from the chimney like 
26 showers of shooting stars, Sindre put a pigskin into 
the furnace, and bade Brok blow the bellows with 
all his might, and never stop until he should speak 



116 

the word. The flames leaped up white and hot, 
and the furnace glowed with a dazzling light, while 
Brok plied the bellows, and Sindre, with unblinking 
eyes, watched the slowly changing colors which 
played around the melted mass within. While the e 
brothers were thus intent upon their work, Loki 
changed himself to a huge horsefly, and, settling 
upon Brok's hand, bit him without mercy. But 
the brave fellow kept on blowing the bellows, and 
stopped not till his brother cried out: ic 

^^ Enough!" 

Then Sindre drew out of the flames a huge wild 
boar with long tusks of ivory, and golden bristles 
that glittered like the beams of the noonday sun. 

" This is Golden Bristle," said Sindre. " It is the i5 
gift of Brok and his brother to the gentle Frey. 
The ship Skidbladner may carry him over the sea ; 
but Golden Bristle shall be a trusty steed which 
will bear him with the speed of the wind over the 
land and through the air and whithersoever he may 20 
wish to go." 

Next the elfin smiths threw gold into the furnace, 
and Brok plied the bellows and Sindre gazed into 
the flames as before. And the great horsefly buzzed 
in Brok's face, and darted at his eyes, and at last 25 
settled upon his neck and stung him till the pain 
caused big drops of sweat to roll off his forehead. 



117 

But the brave fellow stopped riot nor faltered, till 
his brother agam cried out : 

" Enough ! '' 

This time Sindre drew out a wondrous ring of 
solid gold, sparkling all over with the rarest and 
most costly jewels. 

" This is the ring Draupner," said he. " Every 
ninth day eight other rings, equal to it in every 
way, will drop from it. Wheresoever it is carried, it 
»^o will enrich the earth and make the desert blossom as 
a rose ; a^nd it will bring plentiful harvests and fill 
the farmers' barns with grain and their houses with 
good cheer. Take it, brother Brok, to Odin as the 
best gift of the elves to him and to mankind." 
16 Lastly the smiths took iron which had been brought 
from the mountains of the far North ; and after beat- 
ing it upon their anvils until it glowed white and 
hot, Sindre threw it into the furnace. 

^^This shall be the gift of gifts," said he to Brok. 
20 " Ply the bellows as before, and do not for your life 
stop or falter until the work is finished." 

But as Brok blew the bellows, and his brother 
gazed into the glowing fire, the horsefly came again. 
This time it bit Brok's eyelids till the blood filled 
25 his eyes and ran down his cheeks, and blinded him 
so that he could not see. At last, In sore distress 
and wild with pain, Brok let go of the bellows, and 



118 

« 

lifted his hand to drive the fly away. Then Sindre 
drew his work out of the furnace. It was a blue 
steel hammer, well made in every way, save that 
the handle was half an inch too short. 

" This is Mjolner, or the Crusher," said Sindre to 5- 
Loki, who had again taken his proper shape. " Thor, 
the thunderer, may have the hammer which you 
promised him; but it shall be our gift, and not 
yours. The stoutest giant can not stand against him 
who is armed with this hammer, nor is any shield or lO' 
armor proof against its lightning strokes." 

And Brok took the three treasures which Sindre 
had fashioned, and went back with Loki to the dwell- 
ing of Thor in the distant North. And they chose 
Odin and Thor and Frey to examine and judge which 15 
was best, — Loki's three gifts, the work of Ivald's 
sons, or Brok's three gifts, the work of Sindre. 

When the judges were seated, Loki went forward 
and gave to Odin the spear Gungner, that would 
always hit the mark ; and to Frey he gave the ship 20 
Skidbladner, that would sail whithersoever he wished. 
Then he gave the golden hair to Thor, who placed it 
upon the head of fair Sif ; and it grew there, and 
was a thousand-fold more beautiful than the silken 
tresses of which she had been so proud. , 25 

" Where is the hammer that you promised to bring 
me?" asked Thor angrily. But Loki did not answer. 



119 

After the judges had looked carefully at these 
treasures and talked about the beauty and the value 
of each, little Brok came humbly forward and offered 
his gifts. To Odin he gave the ring Draupner, 
already dropping riches. To Frey he gave the boar 
Golden Bristle, telling him that wherever he chose to 
go, this steed would serve him well, and would carry 
him faster than any horse. And then to Thor he 
gave the Crusher, and said that it, like Odin's spear, 
o would always hit the mark, crushing in pieces what- 
ever it struck, and that whithersoever it might be 
hurled, it would always come back to its owner's 
hand again. 

The judges declared at once that the hammer and 

15 the boar and the ring were the best gifts, and that 

Brok had fairly won the wager. But when the elf 

demanded Loki's head as the forfeit, the cunning 

mischief-maker laughed, and answered : 

" My head is, by the terms of our agreement, 
20 yours; but my neck is my own, and you shall not on 
any account touch or harm it." 

So Brok went back to his brother and his glowing 

forge without the head of Loki ; but he was loaded 

with rich and rare presents from Thor and golden- 

25 haired Sif . 

— From " The Story of Siegfried,^' by permission of Messrs. 
Charles Scribner^s Son& 




THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. 

When o'er the silent seas alone, 
For days and nights we've cheerless gone, 
Oh, they who've felt it know how sweet, 
Some sunny morn a sail to meet. 

Sparkling at once is ev'ry eye, 
" Ship ahoy ! ship ahoy ! " our joj'ful cry ; 
While answering back the sounds we hear, 
"Shipahoy! shipahoy! whatcheer? whatcheer? 



Then sails are back'd, we nearer come, 
Kind words are said of friends and home; 
And soon, too soon, we part with pain. 
To sail o'er silent seas again. 

— Thomas Moore. 



THOSE EVENING BELLS. 

Those evening bells ! those evening bells 1 
How many a tale their music tells. 
Of youth and home, and that sweet time 
When last I heard their soothing chime. 

Those joyous hours are 

passed away ; 
And many a heart that 

then was gay. 
Within the tomb now 

darkly dwells, 
And hears no more those 

evening bells. 

And so 'twill be when 

I am gone ; 
That tuneful peal will ihomM Moor 

still ring on, 
While other bards shall walk these dells, 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 




Few poets of the nineteenth century have equaled Thomas 
Moore- in the power to combine words of a commonplace 
IS character into poetry, which charms the inner ear by its 
delightful cadence. The two poems here given are from his 
"National Aira." In reading them, observe the exquisite har- 
mony of the words, and their perfect adaptation to the thoughts 
which they express and inspire. 



122 



SEARCHING FOR GOLD AND FINDING 

A RIVER. 

Three hundred and fifty years ago this country 
of ours was a wild land of woods and prairies and 
swamps. There were no broad farms nor busy 
towns nor roads from place to place ; but the only 
inhabitants were Indians, and wild beasts were to 5 
be found everywhere. 

The people of Europe did not know much about 
America, for it had been only a few years since 
Columbus had shown them the way to it. They 
knew nothing about its great rivers or its lofty 10 
mountains; nor did they know how far it reached 
to the north or south or west. They thought of 
it only as a place where there was much gold and 
silver, which might be had by fighting the Indians 
and taking it from them. is 

As the country had been discovered by the 
Spanish, it was said to belong to Spain ; and 
nearly all the earliest comers were Spaniards who 
came in search of gold. Among them was a daring 
young man whose name was Ferdinand de Soto. He 2^ 
made two or three visits to America, and each time 
gained a great deal of wealth. But he was not satis- 
fied ; for he wanted to explore the country north of 
the Gulf of Mexico, where no white man had yet 




128 

ventured, and see whether he might not win still 
more riches and renown. 

He therefore fitted out some ships i 
style, with everything that was needed to 
5 conquer this new and unknown country. 
Great numbers of men were anxious to go 
with him, for everyone expected to find 
a land that was rich in gold and sil- 
ver and precious things. The ships 
10 reached the western coast of Florida 
early in the spring, and De Soto and 
his followers went on shore, full of ^.^b^ a. Soto, 
high hopes and great expectations. 

Everything was taken out of the ships : food 
15 and clothing, firearms and horses, a drove of hogs — 
the first ever seen in this country, — dogs for chasing 
the Indians, and whatever else might be of use in 
conquering and despoiling the land. Then, in order 
that no one should think of running away from 
^danger, all the ships were sent back to Cuba. The 
men now knew that they must make the best of 
things or perish. 

Soon the hunt for gold began. The country 

heing unknown to the Spaniards, they were obliged 

^to trust to Indian guides whom they forced to go 

with them. These guides led them into all sorts 

o£ dangerous places — sometimes through dismal 



124 

swamps where they were almost buried in the boggy 
ground, sometimes into trackless woods where they 
wandered for days uncertain which way to go. 

Not much gold could they find in a land like this, 
and they did not care for anything else. Before 5 
the summer was fairly over, the most of the men 
were ready to give up the undertaking and go home. 
But De Soto would not listen to them. And, indeed, 
how could they go home, now that the ships had 
sailed away ? 10 

Early the next spring they started again. They 
had found a new guide, who promised to lead them 
to a country that was full of gold and was governed 
by a queen. But although they traveled far, the 
Spaniards never came to such a country. They passed is 
through pleasant valleys where there were wild 
fruits in plenty, and myriads of beautiful flowers 
and singing birds ; then they were obliged to cross 
deep rivers and dangerous swamps, and to make 
their way through dark forests and tangled thickets, 20 
where many of them perished. 

Instead of fine cities and stores of gold, they 
found only a few poor Indian wigwams and dens 
of savage beasts. Winter came again, and as they 
were now much farther north, it was longer and 25 
colder than any they had ever known. But they 
took a little Indian village from its owners, fitted 



up the wigwams and built a few log huts, and made 

themselves as comfortable as they could until spring. 

When they wei-e ready to start again, De Soto 

called before him the Indian chief in whose country 

5 they were, and bade him furnish a number of 

men to go with the Spaniards and carry 

their arms and goods. That very night, 

when all were asleep, the village was set 

on fire. Eleven men were burned 

10 to death or were killed by the 

Indians ; nearly all the horses 

perished ; and the greater part 

of their arms and clothing was 

lost. But these losses only made 

15 De Soto the more determined not to give 

up the search for gold. 

At length, those of the party who had lived 

through the hardships of a two years* march, came 

to the banks of a mighty river — the largest river 

atthey had ever seen. It was the Mississippi, the 

Father of Waters, as the Indians called it. So far 

as is certainly known, they were the first white men 

who had ever beheld it. 

This was in the summer of 1541. 

* Two hundred canoes filled with Indians came 

froia the other side of the river, bringing fish and 

fruits to give to the white strangers. De Soto set 




127 

up a wooden cross near the shore, and claimed all 
the country for the king of Spain. And here the 
Spaniards staid nearly a month, building a boat 
that would be large enough and strong enough to 
5 carry the horses over to the other shore. 

At last, having safely crossed the great river, they 
started again on the long search for gold. First they 
went north, then west, then south, and then back 
toward the river. New dangers and difficulties con- 
10 fronted them at every turn. Men and horses per- 
ished, and when De Soto at last came again to the 
banks of the Mississippi, he was almost alone. 

*• I am no common man," he said to an Indian 
chief who met him there. " I am a child of the 
16 sun. I can do anything that I choose, and no one 
can hinder me." 

" Dry up the great river, and then I will believe 

you," said the Indian. 

The hot days of summer came, and De Soto was 

20 taken sick and died. The few Spaniards who were 

still alive kept his death a secret ; for they feared 

lest the Indians, knowing how little they could do 

without their leader, would make an attack upon 

them. One dark night they put his body into a boat 

25 and, rowing out to the middle of the stream, dropped 

It overboard into the great river which he had found 

^hile searching for gold. 



128 



BEAVERS AT HOME. 

A beaver is a small animal about three feet in 

length. It is covered with fine, glossy, dark brown 

fur. Its tail is nearly a foot long, and has no hair 

at all, but only little scales, 

something like a fish. This » 

tail is of great use to the 

I)eaver, for it serves as a 

trowel, an alarm bell, and 

many other things besides. 

A beaver can not bear to m 
live alone. He is never so 
happy as when he' has two 
or three hundred friends 
close at hand whom he can 
visit every day and all day; i^ 
for Ijeavers are the best and 
kindest neighbors in the 
world, always ready to help 
one another in building new 
houses or in repairing old s< 
ones. 
Of course the first thing to be done when one is 
going to build a house or a village is to fix on a suit- 
able site for it ; and the spot which every beaver of 
sense thinks most desirable is either a large pond, a' 
or, if no pond is to be had, a low plain with a 




129 

stream running through it. For out of such a plain, 
a pond can be made. 

It must be a very, very long time since beavers 

first learned that the way to make a pond out of 

5 a stream is to build a dam across it. To begin 

with, they must know which way the stream runs, 

and in this they never make a mistake. 

They first gather together a number of stakes 
about five feet long, which they fix in rows tight in 
10 the ground on each side of the stream. While the 
older beavers are doing this, — for the safety of the 
village lies in the strength of the foundation, — 
the younger ones are fetching and heaping up many 
green branches of trees. These branches are woven 
15 in and out among the rows of stakes, which by this 
time reach across the stream, and a dam is formed, 
perhaps a hundred feet in length. 

When the foundation has been finished, the bea- 
vers pile stones, clay, and sand upon it until they 
•-'ohave built a wall ten or twelve feet thick at the 
bottom and two or three feet thick at the top. 
After all this has been done, the overseer or head 
beaver goes carefully over every part to see if the 
dam is of the right shape and is everywhere smooth 
^^ni even; for beavers do not like poor work, and 
^tiy who are lazy or careless are sure to be punished. 
When the dam has been finished and the pond made, 

sen. READ. IV. — 



180 

the beavers begin to think about their houses. As 
they have a great dislike to damp floors, they have 
to raise their dwellings quite six or eight feet above 
the water, so that when the stream rises during the 
rainy season they will still be dry and comfortable. 6 

Beavers are always quite clear in their minds as 
to what they want, and how to get it, and they like 
to keep things distinct. When they are in the 
water, they are as happy as they can be ; but when 
they are out of it, they like to be dry. It is some- lo 
times two or three months before the village is fin- 
ished. But the little round huts are to be used only 
for winter homes; for no beaver would think of 
sleeping indoors during the summer, or, indeed, of 
staying two days in the same place. 15 

All that a beaver does is well done. The walls 
of his house are about two feet thick, and when he 
has a large family or many friends to stay with him 
the house is sometimes three stories high. No bea- 
ver ever thinks of keeping house alone. Sometimes 2c 
he will have one companion, and sometimes as many 
as thirty. But however full a hut may be, every- 
thing is kept in good order. Each beaver has his 
fixed place on the floor, which is covered with dry 
leaves and moss. A door is always kept open into 21 
the place where their food is kept, and so they never 
go hungry. There they lie all through the winter, 



181 

eating the bark and tender shoots of young trees 
which they have carefully stored away, sleeping 
through the cold stormy weather, and at last get- 
ting very fat. 
5 At one time there were many beavers in the West 
and the South, but now there are very few to be 
found there. Many years ago a Frenchman who was 
traveling in Louisiana spent a good deal of time in 
watching beavers and learning about their ways. 
10 He hid himself close to a dam which the little crea- 
tures had built, and in the night he cut a hole about 
a foot wide right through it. 

He had made no noise while cutting through the 

dam, but the rush of the water aroused one beaver 

15 who was not sleeping as soundly as the others. 

This beaver left his hut quickly, and swam to the 

dam to see what was wrong. As soon as he saw the 

channel that had been dug, he struck four loud 

blows with his tail, and every beaver in the village 

*Jeft his bed and rushed out in answer to the call. 

W'hen they reached the dam and saw the large hole 

^Ji it, they took counsel as to what they should do. 

Then the head beaver gave orders to the rest, and 

^U went to the bank to make mortar. 

^ When they had made as much mortar as they 

^ould carry, they loaded each other's tails, and form- 

• 

^^g in line marched to the dam. The mortar was 



placed in the hole and driven down tight by blows 
from the beavers' tails. So hard did they work, 
and so much sense did they show, that in a short 
time the dam was as good as ever. Then one of 
the older beavers struck two blows with his tail, and i 
in a few minutes all were in bed and asleep again. 
— Adapted from "Animal Biography" 6y William Bingley. 



THE IRON HORSE. 



See him as he stands on the track, ready to begin 
the race ! Did any war horse ever look prouder, 
stand firmer, brace 
himself so bravely w 
for the onset? 

He breathes short 
and quick, filling his 
lungs with air and 
puffing it out through is 
his flaming nostrils. 
He swallows his food 
at a gulp — black stones which become red fire in 
his great stomach. He drinks more water than a 
dozen camels making ready for a desert journey, ao 
He is restive, and yet easy to be controlled. He 




188 

trembles with impatience. With his fifty tons' 
weight he shakes the earth around him. 

See his iron sinews, how tense, how ready for 
action they are ! and think of the wonderful power 
5 that lies dormant within them, soon to be awakened 
to energetic life ! 

And now the master gives the word — it is only 

a motion of his hand. The steed whinnies with 

delight, he moves, he starts. No spur, nor whip, 

10 nor guiding rein for him ! If he has plenty to eat 

and drink, he will do whatever he is bidden. 

See how steadily and with what force he moves at 

the beginning of the race ! His momentum becomes 

greater with every movement of those iron muscles ; 

16 his speed increases; he neighs with delight as his 

master gives him the reins. 

On, on, thou swifter than the west wind! On, 
thou star chaser ! The fleetest steed in the world 
can not overtake thee ! 
20 Snorting, neighing, puffing, whistling, he speeds 
onward ; he crosses rivers without slacking his pace ; 
he rushes through villages and towns, shrieking in 
iis pride and never pausing ; he dives under moun- 
tains, and his one great eye shines like a meteor in 
^ the dark caverns through which he hastens. 

Out he leaps again, with a roar and a crash and a 
slxrill scream which wakens all the countryside and 



184 

is echoed far among the hills. But now, at another 
motion of his master's hand, he slackens his speed ; he 
curbs his wonderful power; his rattling pace becomes 
a smooth, gliding movement ; he creeps ; he stops. 

He has carried his master, his groom, and five s 
hundred riders a distance of sixty miles in as many 
minutes. Yet he is not tired. He pants and trem- 
bles, it is true, but only because he is impatient to 
be going again. The groom pats him on the back ; 
he smooths his shining black side ; he polishes the lo 
yellow stripes that girdle his body ; he looks lovingly 
into his eye. Everybody admires him. 

How docile is the great steed ! Although his 
strength is equal to that of a thousand war horses, 
his master can control it by the movement of a sin- 15 
gle finger. How useful he is ! He is your best 
servant. From the remotest corners of the world he 
brings your food and clothing ; he will carry you to 
any place you may choose to go. 

How powerful he is ! He has made one neighbor- 20 
hood of our whole great continent; he has pretty 
well done away with distances; he has helped to 
civilize the world. Who says that he is only a mass 
of iron and steel, of senseless wheels and lifeless levers ? 

In all the world there is no horse like the iron 25 
horse. 

— From " The Horse Fair,^^ by permission of The Century Co, 



LITTLE BELL. 

Piped the blackbird on the beechwood 

spray, 
" Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, 

What's your name ? " quoth he. 
"What's your name? It surely must 

be told, 
Pretty maid with showery curls of gold " ■ 
" Little Bell," said she. 




Little Bell sat down beside the rockb 
And tossed aside her gleaming, golden 
locks. 

" Bonny bird," quoth she, 
" Sing me your best song before I go 
*' Here's the very finest song I know 

Little Bell," said he. 

And the blackbird piped : you ne> er 

heard 
Half so gay a song from any bird — 

Full of quips and wiles, 
Now so round and rich, now soft and 

slow. 
All for love of that sweet face below, 
Dimpled o'er with smiles. 




And the while the bonny bird did pour 
Hia full heart out freely o'er and o'er, 

'Neath the morning skies, 
In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
And shine forth in happy overflow 

From the blue, bright eyes. 




Down the dell she tripped, and through the 
gl iile 

Pteped the squirrel from the hazel 
•f shade. 

And from out the tree, 
'^wung and leaped, and frolicked, void 
of fear, — 
TV While bold blackbird piped, that 
all might hear, 
* Little Bell ! " piped he. 



Little Bell sat down amid the fern : 

" Squirrel, squirrel ! to your task return ; 

Bring me nuts," quoth she. 
Up, away the frisky squirrel hies, 
Golden wood lights glancing in his eyes, — 

And adown the tree. 
Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by autumn's sun, 
In the little lap, dropped one by one ; — 



Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun ! 
" Happy Bell ! " pipes he. 

Little Bell looked up and down the glade : 
" Squirrel, squirrel, from the nut-tree shade. 
Bonny blackbird, if you're not afraid, 

Come and share with me ! " 
Down came squirrel, eager for his fare, 
Down came bonny blackbird, I declare ! 
Little Bell gave each his honest share ; 

Ah ! the merry three ! "'. / 

And the while these wo jdland " >■ --^^ 

playmates twain. 
Piped and frisked from 

bough to bough again, 
'Neath the morning 

skies, 
In the little childish heart 

below. 
All the sweetness seemed 

to grow and grow, 
And shine out in happy 

overflow 
From her blue, bright eyes 

By her snow-white cot at close of day, 
Knelt aweet Bell, with folded palms, to pray. 




BEAVERS AT HOME. 
A beaver is a small animal about three feet in 
length. It is covered with fine, glossy, dark brown 
fur. Its tail is nearly a foot long, and has no hair 
at all, but only little scales, 
something like a fish. This b 
tail is of great use to the 
beaver, for it serves as a 
trowel, an alarm bell, and 
many other things besides. 

A beaver can not bear to w 
live alone. He is never so 
happy as when he' has two 
or three hundred friends 
close at hand whom he can 
visit every day and all day; i3 
for beavers are the best and 
kindest neighbors in the 
world, always ready to help 
one another in building new 
iBe««»tHom.. housBS or in repairing old ai 

ones. 
Of course the first thing to be done when one i.s 
going to build a house or a village is to fix on a suit- 
able site for it ; and the spot which every beaver of 
sense thinks most desirable i.^ either a large pond, a 
or, if no pond is to be had, a low plain with a 




stream running through it. For out of such a plain, 
a pond can be made. 

It must be a very, very long time since beavers 
first learned that the way to make a pond out of 

5 a stream is to build a dam across it. To besin 
virith, they must know which way the stream runs, 
and in this they never make a mistake. 

They first gather together a number of stakes 
about five feet long, which they fix in rows tight in 

lo the ground on each side of the stream. While the 
older beavers are doing this, — for the safety of the 
village lies in the strength of the foundation, — 
the younger ones are fetching and heaping up many 
green branches of trees. These branches are woven 

15 in and out among the rows of stakes, which by this 
time reach across the stream, and a dam is formed, 
perhaps a hundred feet in length. 

When the foundation has been finished, the bea- 
vers pile stones, clay, and sand upon it until they 

•^•o have built a wall ten or twelve feet thick at the 
bottom and two or three feet thick at the top. 
After all this has been done, the overseer or head 
beaver goes carefully over every part to see if the 
dam is of the right shape and is everywhere smooth 

25 and even ; for beavers do not like poor work, and 

any who are lazy or careless are sure to be punished. 

When the dam has been finished and the pond made, 

sen. READ. IV. — 9 



AOV 



the beavers begin to think about their houses. As 
they have a great dislike to damp floors, they have 
to raise their dwellings quite six or eight feet above 
the water, so that when the stream rises during the 
rainy season they will still be dry and comfortable. 5 

Beavers are always quite clear in their minds as 
to what they want, and how to get it, and they like 
to keep things distinct. When they are in the 
water, they are as happy as they can be ; but when 
they are out of it, they like to be dry. It is some- lo 
times two or three months before the village is fin- 
ished. But the little round huts are to be used only 
for winter homes ; for no beaver would think of 
sleeping indoors during the summer, or, indeed, of 
staying two days in the same place. is 

All that a beaver does is well done. The walls 
of his house are about two feet thick, and when he 
has a large family or many friends to stay with him 
the house is sometimes three stories high. No bea- 
ver ever thinks of keeping house alone. Sometimes 20 
he will have one companion, and sometimes as many 
as thirty. But however full a hut may be, every- 
thing is kept in good order. Each beaver has his 
fixed place on the floor, which is covered with dry 
leaves and moss. A door is always kept open into 26 
the place where their food is kept, and so they never 
go hungry. There they lie all through the winter. 



181 

bating the bark and tender shoots of young trees 
which they have carefully stored away, sleeping 
through the cold stormy weather, and at last get- 
ting very fat. 

5 At one time there were many beavers in the West 
and the South, but now there are very few to be 
found there. Many years ago a Frenchman who was 
traveling in Louisiana spent a good deal of time in 
watching beavers and learning about their ways. 

10 He hid himself close to a dam which the little crea- 
tures had built, and in the night he cut a hole about 
a foot wide right through it. 

He had made no noise while cutting through the 
dam, but the rush of the water aroused one beaver 

15 who was not sleeping as soundly as the others. 
This beaver left his hut quickly, and swam to the 
dam to see what was wrong. As soon as he saw the 
channel that had been dug, he struck four loud 
blows with his tail, and every beaver in the village 

20 left his bed and rushed out in answer to the call. 
When they reached the dam and saw the large hole 
in it, they took counsel as to what they should do. 
Then the head beaver gave orders to the rest, and 
all went to the bank to make mortar. 

25 When they had made as much mortar as they 
could carry, they loaded each other's tails, and form- 
ing in line marched to the dam. The mortar was 



142 




in spite of my high heels and ray tall hat, everybody 
has the ill manners to call me a little man. It 
makea me furious ! " 

"Good! good!" cried the host. " I have a 
mind to go along with you. I want to ask. b 
the go^'ernor why it is that everybody calls me 
the poor tavern keeper." Then, calling to the 
hostler, he said, '*Here, John, you lazybones! 
stir yourself quickly, and pack my valise. I 
am going up to the city to see the governor." i 
"Master," said the hostler, " I should like to 
go too. I want to ask the governor why everybody 
calls me lazybones." 

On reaching the city, the three friends went at 
once to the governor's house and asked to see the J 
governor. The servant led them into the parlor, 
where there was a very large mirror. 

The governor listened to them very kindly, 
and then said to the tavern keeper : " Turn 
your back to this mirror ; then look over your 2 
left shoulder, and tell rae what you see." 

"What do I see!" cried the tavern keeper. 

"Why, I see a dozen women sitting round a 

table, and drinking tea, and talking. And tliere 

is my wife, as sure as you ]i%'e !" , as 

"Well, my friend," said the governor, "as long 

as your wife spends her time in this way, you will 



143 



not only be called a poor tavern keeper, but you will 
be a poor tavern keeper." 

The hostler's turn came next. He stood up before 
the mirror, and looked over his left shoulder. 
5 " Ha, ha ! " he cried, " I see two dogs chasing a 
hare. They think to catch him, but they'll have to 
get up earlier in the morning if they do." 

" Well, my friend," said the governor, " when you 
run as fast as this hare every time an order is given 
10 you, people will stop calling you lazybones." 

And now the little gentleman came forward. 

" What do you see ? " asked the governor. 

" I see nothing but myself," he answered. 

" Do you see yourself larger than you 
15 are c 

" No, I see myself just as I am." 

" Well," said the governor, '' I have no 

doubt but that other people see you the 

same way. The only advice that I can 

20 give you is to have yourself measured till 

you have really grown larger, then people will stop 
calling you little. Good-bye, my little man ! " 

The little gentleman went away not so well pleased 

as he wanted to be. But there are a good many 

25 people who are no wiser than he. Did you never 

hear of any one who thought to become great by 

wearing fine clothes? 




144 



OUR COUNTRY. 

Our country! 'tis a glorious land! 

With broad arms stretched from shore to shon 
The proud Pacific chafes her strand, 

She hears the dark Atlantic roar ; 
And, nurtured on her ample breast. 

How many a goodly prospect lies 
In Nature's wildest grandeur dressed, 

Enameled with her loveliest dyes. 

Rich prairies, decked with flowers of gold, 

Like sunlit oceans roll afar ; 
Broad lakes her azure heavens behold, 

Reflecting clear each trembling star ; 
And mighty rivers, mountain born, 

Go sweeping onward, dark and deep. 
Through forests where the bounding fawn 

Beneath their sheltering branches leap. 

Great God 1 we thank thee for this home. 

This bounteous birth-land of the free ; 
Where wanderers from afar may come, 

And breathe the air of liberty ! 
Still may her flowers untrampled spring. 

Her harvests wave, her cities rise ; 
And yet, till Time shall fold his wing. 

Remain earth's loveliest paradise ! 



146 



SOMETHING ABOUT COTTON. 

The South is the land of cotton, for there the soil 
i climate are best fitted for its growth. Much 
re cotton is raised in our warm southern states 
n in all the rest of the world together. In 
le years the crop is worth twice as much as all 

gold and silver taken frbm our mines, 
-let us visit one of the big plantations of South 
olin^/ or Alabama, and see how cotton grows. 
:*e is a field where the pickers are at work. The 
.ks are from three to four feet high, and upon 
se are the bolls which contain the cotton. The 
Is on the limbs near the bottom are full-grown 
L are about the size of walnuts with the hulls 
. on. On the middle limbs are younger and 
^Uer bolls that are rapidly growing larger. The 

branches are covered with green leaves among 
ich are still smaller bolls with here and there a 
Dm. A few weeks ago the whole plant was cov- 
3 with leaves, but as the stalk matures these drop 

beginning with the lower branches where the 
Ls first ripen. A field of ripening cotton is one 
the most beautiful sights in the world. See the 
'Sting bolls on the lower branches of the stalks! 
' us go into the field and pick some of the bunches 
Wnite which hang out as if ready to drop into our 

SCH. READ. 4 — 10 



146 

hands. How easily they come out, and how soft and 
clean the fibers are ! 

But what are those hard little things around which 
some of the fibers cling so closely ? They are cotton 
seeds, and are about as big as lemon seeds. They 5 
must all be gotten out before the cotton can be sold. 
A little later on, we shall learn how this is done. 
The cotton " bloom " or blossom is shaped a little 
like a hollyhock. On first opening, it is white ; 
the next day it is a beautiful red, and drops off, i^ 
or rather is pushed off by the little boll 
which follows it and contains the germ of 
the cotton. 

As soon as the older bolls on the lower 
branches begin to ripen, " picking time " be- ^^ 
gins. In some places this occurs as early as 

Cotton Plant ^^^^J' ^^^ ^^^ picking is continued through 
the autumn months, and often until Christ- 
mas. All this while the bolls are ripening and 
opening, and the lint cotton, or staple as it is often 20 
called, must be picked out as fast as possible. As 
soon as a field is gone over, the laborers begin again 
where they first started, and gather the cotton that 
has opened since the former picking; and thus the 
same field must be gone over many times. 25 

After the cotton is picked it is carried in wagons 
to the gin. This is a large box machine in which 





are forty to sixty small circular saws which revolve 
rapidly between as many rows of stiff brushes fas- 
tened on cylinders. The saws cut the cotton 
from the seeds, and the brushes pull it off 
I from the teeth of the saws. The lint 
cotton, or staple, is thrown out from 
one side of the gin, and the seeds fall 
on the other side. 

The lint cotton is now ready for bal- 
o ing. It is carried to the cotton press where nMug oottoi 
it is " compressed " into packages about five 
feet long, four feet wide, and two feet thick. These 
packages are called bales and weigh from four hun- 
dred to five hundred pounds each. Each bale is 
15 wrapped in rough cloth, which looks much like 
coffee sacking, and is bound with bands of hoop 
iron. It is now ready to be sold and sent away 
to be made into cloth. 

But what becomes of the 
Lotton seeds ? All are care- 
fully saved. They are 
mashed between rollers 
issed in strong presses 
imtil all the oil which they 
"contain is squeezed out of them. The oil is used 
la making soap, salids, and patent butters, and in 
niixing paints, and for many other purposes. The 




BalH of OoHan 



148 

inaKEi from which the oil iias been squeezed is ground 
into cotton-seed ineal, and this, with the crushed 
hulls from the seeds, is used for feeding cattle and 
as a fertilizer. The cotton seed raised every year in 
the South is wortl^many millions of dollars. s 

Until late years, nearly all the great cotton mills 
were in the northern and eastern states, and the 
baled cotton was sent there 
to be made into thread and 
cloth. But now thereio" 
are many large fac- 
tories throughout the South. 
The cotton states have good 
■.(.■-•^ '-^:*?*^'!^^„ water power, and coal is 
""°': "" ' abundant and cheap ; and sou 

Old FathioDsd Cotton Pnii, , , ; , , ■ , , 

the cotton, being so near the 
mills, the expense of carrying it from the plantations 
is but small. All these advantages make it possible 
for cotton goods to be manufactured more profitably 
in the South than elsewhere. Still, there is so mucfc»' 
cotton raised that the larger part of it must be sen,"* 
away, some to the factories in the North and some t*^ 
those in Europe. Indeed, if all the gold that is du^^ 
in a single year were put in one pile, and all the cot:::^ 
ton and cotton goods that are sold during the sam-^*' 
time to foreign countries were put in another, th-^^ 
cotton pile would be worth more than the gold. 




MAGGIE TULLIVER AND THE GYPSIES. 



In "The Mill on the Floss," a delightful book 
which you will read before you are much older, 
George Eliot has told us the story of Maggie Tulliver 
and her brother Tom. They lived at Dorlcote Mill 
s on the river Floss. One day they had a childish 
quarrel, which brought about the adventure that is 
here narrated. 

Maggie resolved that she would not go home that 
day. No ; she would run away and go to the 

1* gypsies, and her brother Tom should never see her 
any more. That was by no means a 
new idea to Maggie ; she had b pti - 
often told that she was like a g>p \ 
and "half wild," that when she w i- 

M miserable it seemed to her tli il i"! 
the only way ever to be happ} 
again would be to live in a 
little brown tent on the com- 
mons; the gypsies, she thought, 

» Would be glad to welcome her 
and pay her respect on account o«"g« ^i""'- 

of her superior knowledge. She had once spoken of 
thia matter to Tom, and had gone so far as to suggest 
that he should stain his face brown, and they should 




150 

run away together. But Tom had rejected the 
scheme with contempt, saying that the gypsies were 
thieves and that they had hardly anything to eat, 
and nothing to drive but a donkey. 

To-day, however, Maggie thought her misery had 5 
reached a point at which gypsydom was her only 
refuge : she would run straight away till she came to 
Dunlow Common, where there would certainly be 
gypsies; and cruel Tom, and the rest of her relations 
who found fault with her, should never see her any lo 
more. She thought of her father as she ran along 
— but then, she would secretly send him a letter by 
a small gypsy, who would run away without telling 
where she was, and just let him know that she was 
well and happy, and always loved him very much. is 

The road seemed indeed very long, and Maggie, as 
she wandered desperately on, became not only very 
tired, but dreadfully hungry ; for she had eaten but 
very little that day. ... At last, however, the green 
fields came to an end, and she found herself looking 20 
through the bars of a gate into a lane with a wide 
margin of grass on each side of it. She had come 
this long distance for the purpose of seeking her 
unknown kindred, the gypsies; and now she was 
in this strange lane, she hardly dared look on one 25 
side of her lest she should see one of the dusky tribe. 

It was not without a leaping of the heart that 



161 

she caught sight of a small pair of bare legs sticking 
up, feet uppermost, by the side of a hillock ; and 
she was too much agitated at the first glance to 
see the ragged clothes and the dark, shaggy head 

5 attached to them. It was a boy asleep ; and Maggie 
trotted along faster and more lightly lest she should 
wake him ; she did not once think that he was one 
of her friends, the gypsies, and that he might have 
the kindliest of manners. But the fact was so ; for 

10 at the next bend of the lane, Maggie actually saw 

the little haK-round, black tent, with the blue smoke 

rising before it, which was to be her refuge from all 

the trials that had pursued her in civilized life. 

She even saw a female figure by the column of 

15 smoke — doubtless the gypsy mother who provided 
the tea and other groceries ; and it was astonishing 
to herself that she did not feel more delighted. But 
it was startling to find the gypsies in a lane, after 
all, and not on a common; indeed, it was rather 

20 disappointing ; for a mysterious common, where 
there were sand pits to hide in, and one was out 
of everybody's reach, had always made part of 
Maggie's picture of gypsy life. She went on, how- 
ever, and thought with some comfort that gypsies 

25 most likely knew nothing about idiots, so there was 
no danger of their falling into the mistake of setting 
her down at the first glance as an idiot. 



It was plain she had attracted attention ; for the 
female figure, who proved to be a young woman with 
a baby on her arm, walked slowly to meet her. Mag- 
gie looked up into the new face as it approached. 




mi 

Ky little lajy, whsn are jtm golngT" 

and was reassured by the thought tbat her Aunt s 
Pullet and tlie rest were right when they called her 
^ gypsy ; for this face, with the bright, dark eyes 
and long hair, was really something like what she 
used to see in the glass before she cut her hair off. 

"My little lady, wliere are you going?" the lo 
gypsy asked. 

It was delightful, and just what Maggie expected ; 



163 

the gypsies saw at once that she was a little lady, 
and were prepared to treat her accordingly. 

^' Not any farther/' said Maggie, feeling as if she 
were saying what she had rehearsed in a dream. 

6 " I'm come to stay with you^ please." 

" That's pretty ; come, then. Why, what a nice 
little lady you are, to be sure," said the gypsy, tak- 
ing her by the hand. Maggie thought her very 
agreeable, and wished she had not been so dirty. 

10 There was quite a group round the fire when they 
reached it. An old gypsy woman was seated on the 
ground nursing her knees, and now and then poking 
a skewer into the round kettle that sent forth an 
odorous steam; two small, shock-headed children 

16 were lying prone and resting on their elbows, some- 
thing like small sphinxes ; and a placid donkey was 
bending his head over a tall girl, who, lying on her 
back, was scratching his nose and indulging him 
with a bite of sweet, stolen hay. The slanting sun- 

20 light fell kindly upon them, and the scene was very 
pretty and comfortable, Maggie thought, only she 
hoped they would soon set out the teacups. Every- 
thing would be quite charming when she had taught 
the gypsies to use a washing basin, and to feel an 

26 interest in books. It was a little confusing, though, 
when the young woman began to speak to the old 
one in a language which Maggie did not understand. 



154 

while the tall girl, who was feeding the donkey, sat 
up and stared at her without offering any salutation. 

At last the old woman said : " What, my pretty 
lady, are you come to stay with us ? Sit ye down, 
and tell us where you come from." 5 

It was just like a story ; Maggie liked to be called 
pretty lady and treated in this way. She sat down 
and said : " I'm come from home because I'm un- 
happy, and I mean to be a gypsy. I'll live with you, 
if you like, and I can teach you a great many things." 10 

" Such a clever little lady," said the woman with 
the baby, sitting down by Maggie, and allowing the 
baby to crawl ; " and such a pretty bonnet and 
frock," taking off Maggie's bonnet and looking at 
it, while she said something to the old woman in 15 
the unknown language. The tall girl snatched the 
bonnet and put it on her own head, hind-foremost, 
with a grin. But Maggie was determined not to 
show any weakness on this point, as if she cared 
for the bonnet. 20 

" I don't want to wear a bonnet," she said ; " I'd 
rather wear a red handkerchief like yours " (looking 
at her friend by her side). " My hair was quite long 
till yesterday, when I cut it off ; but I dare say it 
will grow again very soon," she added. She had 25 
forgotten even her hunger at the moment in the 
desire to make herself stand well in gypsy opinion. 



155 

"Oh, what a nice little lady! — and rich, Tm 
sure,'' said the old woman. " Didn't you live in a 
beautiful house at home?" 

" Yes, my home is pretty, and I'm very fond of 

5 the river, where we go fishing ; but I'm often very 
unhappy. I should have liked to bring my books 
with me, but I came away in a hurry, you know. 
But I can tell you almost everything there is in my 
books — I've read them so many times; and that 

10 will amuse you. And I can tell you something 
about geography, too — that's about the world we 
live in — very useful and interesting. Did you ever 
hear about Columbus ? " 

Maggie's eyes had begun to sparkle and her cheeks 

16 to flush — she was really beginning to instruct the 
gypsies and gaining great influence over them. 



II. 



The gypsies themselves were not without amaze- 
ment at this talk, though their attention was divided 
by the contents of Maggie's pocket, which the friend 
20 at her right hand had by this time emptied without 
attracting her notice. 

" Is that where you live ? " said the old woman, at 
the mention of Columbus. 

" Oh, no ! " said Maggie, with some pity ; " Colum- 
26 bus was a very wonderful man, who found out half 



156 

the world, and they put chains on him, and treated 
him very badly, you know ; it's in my Catechism of 
Geography ; but perhaps it's rather too long for me 
to tell before tea — I want my tea so'' 

The last words burst from Maggie, in spite of 5 
herself, with a sudden drop from patronizing instruc- 
tion to simple peevishness. 

"Why, she's hungry, poor little lady," said the 
younger woman. " Give her soriie of the cold victual. 
You've been walking a good way, I'll be bound, my lo 
dear. Where's your home ? " 

" It's Dorlcote Mill — a good way off," said Maggie. 
" My father is Mr. Tulliver ; but we mustn't let him 
know where I am, else he'll fetch me home again. 
Where does the queen of the gypsies live ? " 15 

" What ! Do you want to go to her, my little 
lady?" said the younger woman. The tall girl 
meanwhile was constantly staring at Maggie and 
grinning. Her manners were certainly not agreeable. 

" No," said Maggie ; " I'm only thinking that if 20 
she isn't a very good queen, you might be glad when 
she died, and you would choose another. If I was a 
queen, I'd be kind to everybody/' 

" Here's a bit of nice victual, then," said the old 
woman, handing to Maggie a lump of dry bread 25 
which she had taken from a bag of scraps, and a 
piece of cold bacon. 



167 

"Thank you/' said Maggie, looking at the food 
without taking it; "but will you give me some 
bread and butter and tea instead? I don't like 
bacon." 

5 " We've got no tea nor butter," said the old woman 
with something like a scowl, as if she were getting 
tired of coaxing. 

" Oh, a little bread and treacle would do," said 
Maggie. 

10 "We ha'n't got no treacle," said the old woman 
crossly, whereupon there followed a sharp dialogue 
between the two women in their unknown tongue, 
and one of the small sphinxes snatched at the bread 
and bacon and began to eat it. 

15 A little while afterwards two men came up, fierce- 
looking fellows, who began chattering with the 
women in the strange language which Maggie did 
not understand. From the tones of their voices it 
seemed that they were quarreling, and Maggie, 

20 frightened at their rough manners, could scarcely 
keep from bursting into tears. 

She felt that it was impossible she should ever be 
queen of these people, or ever give them amusing 
and useful knowledge. At last the younger woman, 

26 in her previous coaxing tone, said : 

"This nice little lady's come to live with us; 
aren't you glad?" 



158 

" Ay, very glad/' said the younger, who was look- 
ing at Maggie's silver thimble and other small mat- 
ters that had been taken from her pocket. The 
woman saw she was frightened. 

" We've got nothing nice for a lady to eat," said 5 
the old woman in her coaxing tone, '' and she's so 
hungry, sweet little lady ! " 

" Here, my dear, try if you can eat a bit o' this," 
said the younger woman, handing some of the stew 
on a brown dish with an iron spoon to Maggie. lo 

If her father would but come by in the gig and 
take her up ! Or even if Jack the Giant Killer, or 
Mr. Greatheart, or St. George who slew the dragon 
on the half-pennies, would happen to pass that way ! 
But Maggie thought with a sinking heart that these 15 
heroes were never seen in this neighborhood. . . . 

^'What! you don't like it, my dear!" said the 
young woman, observing that Maggie did not take 
even a spoonful of the stew. " Try a bit — come." 

" No, thank you," said Maggie, summoning all 20 
force for a desperate effort, and trying to smile in a 
friendly way. " I haven't time, I think, it seems 
getting darker. I think I must go home now, and 
come again another day, and then I can bring you a 
basket with some jam tarts and nice things." 26 

Maggie rose from her seat; but her hope sank 
when the old gypsy woman said, " Stop a bit, stop a 



bit, little lady; we'll take you home all safe, when 
we've done supper." 

Maggie sat down again, with small faith in this 
promise, though she presently saw the tall girl put- 
5 ting a bridle on the donkey, and throwing a couple 
of bags on his back. 

III. 

" Now, then, little Missis," said the younger man, 
rising, and leading the donkey forward, " tell us 
10 where you live — what's the name o' the place?" 

" Dorlcote Mill is my home," said Maggie eagerly. 

" What ! a big mill a little way this side o' St. 
Ogg's ? " 

^^Yes," said Maggie. "Is it far off? I think I 
15 should like to walk there, if you please." 

" No, no, it'll be getting dark ; we must make 
haste. And the donkey'U carry you as nice as can 
be — you'll see." 

He lifted Maggie as he spoke, and set her on the 
20 donkey. She felt relieved that it was not the old 
man who seemed to be going with her, but she had 
only a trembling hope that she was going home. 

"Here's your pretty bonnet," said the young 

woman, putting that recently despised but now wel- 

25 come article of costume on Maggie's head ; " and 

you'll say we've been very good to you, won't you ? 

and what a nice little lady we said you was ? " 



160 



"Oh, yes, thank you," said Maggie; "Tin very 
much obliged to you. But I wish you'd go with 
me, too." 

She thought anything was better than going with 
one of the dreadful men alone; it would be more 5 
cheerful to be murdered by a larger party. 

It now appeared that the man also was to be 
seated on the donkey, holding Maggie before him, 
and she was as incapable of remonstrating against 
this arrangement as the donkey himself, though no lo 
nightmare had ever seemed to her more horrible. 
When the woman had patted her on the back and 
said " Good-bye," the donkey, at a strong hint from 
the man's stick, set off at a rapid walk along the 
lane toward the point Maggie had come from an 15 
hour ago, while the tall girl and the rough urchin, 
also furnished with sticks, escorted them for the first 
hundred yards, with much screaming and thwacking. 

The ride was, to Maggie, a most dreadful expe- 
rience. ... At last — oh, sight of joy! — the lane, 20 
the longest in the world, was coming to an end, was 
opening on a broad highroad, where there was 
actually a coach passing! And there was a finger 
post at the corner ; she had surely seen that finger 
post before — " To St. Ogg s, 2 miles." 25 

The gypsy really meant to take her home, then ; 
he was probably a good man, after all, and might 



have been rather hurt at the thought that she didn't 
like coming with him alone. 

As they passed the crossroad, Maggie caiight sight 
of some one coming on a white-faced horse. 




Ih^s (Muight ligi 



6 "Oh, stop, stop!" she cried out. "There's my 
father! Oh, father, father!" 

The sudden joy was almost painful, and before lier 
father reached her she was sobbing. Great was Mr. 
TuUiver's wonder, for he had made a round from 
10 Basset, and had not yet been home. 

"Why, what's the meaning o' this?" he said, 

KB. BBAD. IT. — 11 



162 

checking his horse, while Maggie slipped from th^ 
donkey and ran to her father's stirrup. 

" The little miss lost herself, I reckon," said t] 
gypsy. " She'd come to our tent at the far end 
Dunlow lane, and I was bringing her where she si 
her home was. It's a good way to come.'* 

" Oh, yes, father, he's been very good to bring 
home," said Maggie. " A very kind, good man." 

"Here then, my man," said Mr. Tulliver, taki 
out five shillings. " It's the best day's work y< 
ever did. I couldn't afford to lose the little mail 
here, lift her up before me." . . . 

"Why, Maggie, how's this — how's this?" he sai< 
as they rode along, while she laid her head agai 
her father and sobbed. 

" Oh, father," sobbed Maggie, " I ran away becausj 
Tom was so angry with me. I couldn't bear it." 

"Pooh! pooh!" said Mr. Tulliver, soothingly, "yot 
mustn't think o' running away from father. Whaj 
would father do without his little girl?" 

" Oh, no, I never will again, father — never." 

Mr. Tulliver spoke his mind very strongly whei 
he reached home that evening, and the effect wj 
seen in the remarkable fact that Maggie never hej 
one reproach from her mother, or one taunt froi 
Tom about this foolish business of her running awa^ 
to the gypsies. 



I 



THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON LOW. 




' Oh, where have you 
been, iny Mary. 
(Jh, where liave yon been from 



* I have been to the top of the Caldon Low, 

The midsummer night to see ! " 

' And what did you see, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon Low ? " 
" I saw the glad sunshine come down, 

And I saw the merry winds blow." 

" And what did you hear, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon Low ?" 
"I heard the drops of the water made, 

And the ears of green com grow." 



164 

" Oh, tell me all, my Mary — 

All, all that ever you know ; 
For you must have seen the fairies 

Last night on the Caldon Low." 

" Then take me on your knee, mother, 

And listen, mother of mine : 
A hundred fairies danced last night. 

And the harpers they were nine ; 

" And their harp strings rang so merrily 
To their dancing feet so small ; 

But, oh ! the words of their talking 
Were merrier far than all." 

" And what were the words, my Mary, 
That then you heard them say ? " 

'^ I'll tell you all, my mother ; 
But let me have my way. 

" Some of them played with the water. 

And rolled it down the hill ; 
' And this,' they said, ^ shall speedily turn 

The poor old miller's mill ; 

'^ ^ For there has been no water 

Ever since the first of May; 
And a busy man will the miller be 

At dawning of the day. 



165 



" ^ Oh, the miller, how he will laugh 

When he sees the water rise ! 
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh 

Till the tears fill both his eyes ! * 

^' And some they seized the little winds 

That sounded over the hill ; 
And each put a horn into his mouth. 

And blew both loud and shrill ; 

" ' And there,' they said, ' the merry winds go 

Away from every horn ; 
And they shall clear the mildew dank 

From the blind old widow's com. 

" ' Oh, the poor blind widow. 

Though she has been blind so long. 

She'll be blithe enough when the mildew's gone 
And the corn stands tall and strong.' 

" And then some brought the brown lint seed 
And flung it down from the Low; 

' And this,' they said, ' by the sunrise, 
In the weaver's croft shall grow. 

'^ ' Oh, the poor lame weaver. 

How he will laugh outright 
When he sees his dwindling flax field 

All full of flowers by night ! ' 



166 



" And then outspoke a brownie, 
With a long beard on his chin, 

^ I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 
' And I want some more to spin. 

" ' I've spun a piece of hempen cloth. 

And I want to spin another ; 
A little sheet for Mary's bed. 

And an apron for her mother.' 

" With that I could not help but laugh, 
And I laughed out loud and free; 

And then on the top of the Caldon Low 
There was no one left but me. 

" But coming down from the hilltop 

I heard afar, below, 
How busy the jolly miller was. 

And how the wheels did go. 

" And I peeped into the widow's field. 

And, sure enough, were seen 
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn 

All standing stout and green. 

" And down by the weaver's croft I stole, 
To see if the flax were sprung ; 

And I met the weaver at his gate 
With the good news on his tongue. 



167 

*^ Now this is all I heard, mother, 
And all that I did see ; 

So prithee make my bed, mother. 
For I'm tired as I can be." 



Jj^ioo. 



THE GOOD SAMARITAN. 

A certain man went down from Jerusalem to 
Jericho, and fell among thieves, which stripped him 
of his raiment, and wounded him, and departed, 
leaving him half dead. And by chance there came 

5 down a certain priest that way, and when he saw 
him he passed by on the other side. And likewise 
a Levite, when he was at the place, came and looked 
on him, and passed by on the other side. 

But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came 

10 where he was ; and when he saw him, he had 
compassion on him, and went to him, and bound 
up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set 
him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, 
and took care of him. And on the morrow when 

15 he departed, he took out two pence, and gave them 
to the host, and said unto him, " Take care of him ; 
and whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come 
again I will repay thee." 

Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was 

20 neighbor unto him that fell among the thieves? 




ODBiWTd HdiiiiiiiiiiJ. 



THE CONCORD HYMN. 

The "battle of Lexington and Concord was 
fougLton the 19th of April, 1775. Sixty- 
years later, a monument, erected near 
Coucoid, was dedicated to the memory of 
iatriots who fell in that struck. 
Tlie following song waa written for the 
occasion by Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

By the rude bridge that 
arched the flood, 
Their flag to April's breeze un- 
furled, 

Here once the embattled farmers stood 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept ; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 

We set to-day a votive stone, 
That memory may their deed redeem, 

When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit that made those heroes dare 

To die, or leave their children free, 
Bid Time and Nature gently spare 

The shaft we raise to them and thee. 



169 

THE TWO OFF AS. 

I. 

A very long time ago there lived a king of the 

Angles whose name was Waermund. He had but 

one son, whose name was Ofifa ; he was a tall youth 

and fair, but he was dumb. Moreover, the lad had 

5 been born blind, and he saw nothing till he was of 

the age of seven years. Now when King Waermund 

grew old and Offa, his son, was about thirty years 

old, men began to say : " Lo, Waermund has not 

much longer to live, and Offa, his son, is dumb. 

10 How can a dumb man reign over the Angles?" 

Now there was one of the nobles of the Angles 

whose name was Rigan. And Rigan went to King 

Waermund and said: "0 King, thou art old, and 

^hou hast no son save this Offa, who is dumb, and a 

^durnb man can not reign over the English people. 

-iVow behold me here, and choose me, that I may be 

^^"to thee as another son while thou livest, and that 

^ti^n thou diest I may be thine heir and reign in 

*^5^ stead." 

^ut King Waermund said to Rigan : " Thou shalt 
^^t be my son, neither will I give my kingdom for 
^t^^e to reign over." 

So Rigan gathered himself together an host to 
^^lit against King Waermund. Then King Waer- 



170 

mund gathered together his aldermen and his thanes 
and all his wise men, and said unto them, " What 
shall we do, seeing Rigan cometh with an host to 
fight against us ? " 

And they made a truce with Rigan, so that he 5 
and certain of his captains came and spake with the 
king and his wise men. And they sat for many 
days doubting what they should do, and one spake 
on this manner and another spake on that manner. 
For they would not that a dumb man should reignio 
over them, and yet it pleased them not to cast aside 
the royal house which had so long reigned over the 
people of the Angles. 

Now on the last day Offa, the king's son, came 
and sat among the wise men. For though he was i5 
dumb, yet could he hear and understand the words 
that men spake. So when he heard men say that 
he was not fit to reign over the people of the Angles, 
it grieved him to the heart, and he wept. 

And when he was greatly moved, lo, the string 20 
of his tongue was loosed, and he spake among the 
wise men and said : " This now is wickedness, that 
any man should seek to drive me out of the seat of 
my father's, so that a stranger should reign instead 
of me over my people. Who is this Rigan that he 25 
should rise up against his king, and come to fio-ht 
against him ? Now, if he will stand up against me 



171 



to battle, I will smite him and all that abide with 
him ; but all that abide with me and fight against 
him, them I will greatly honor." 




Lo, th« itilng of hii toD^iia wu loowd. 



So all men greatly wondered when they heard the 
s dumb speak, and saw that he whom they despised 
had a strong heart within him. And the most of 
those who had followed Rigan were afraid and left 
Mm. But Rigan still stood up and defied the king 
and his son, and then went forth. Then the wise 
winen said to the king: 

"0 King, thy son is of age and hath a stout 
heart ; let him be girded with the belt of a fighting 



172 

man, and let him lead us forth to battle against 
Rigan and those that are with him." 

So Ofifa was girded with the belt of a man of war, 
and he went forth to fight against Rigan and his 
followers. Now Rigan had two sons : the name of 5 
the elder was Hildebrand, and the name of the 
younger was Swegen. And Hildebrand came forth 
to fight against Offa, but Offa smote him that he 
died. And when Swegen came to help his brother, 
Offa smote him, too. lo 

So when Rigan saw that both his sons were dead, 
he fled, and was drowned in crossing a certain river. 
And Offa returned to Wsermund, his father, with 
great joy. And Waermund gave up his kingdom to 
his son, and Offa reigned over the Angles, and all is 
the kings that were round about honored him. 

II. 

Now after many years there was a man of the 
Angles who dwelt in Mercia, whose name was Thing- 
ferth, and he was an alderman and a kinsman of the 
king. Now Thingferth had but one son, whose 20 
name was Winfrith. And the child was lame, blind, 
and deaf from his birth; so that his parents had 
great sorrow. And they made a vow to God that, 
if He would of His mercy make the child whole, 
they would build a goodly monastery to His honor. 26 



178 

Now after a while there arose in Mercia a king 
named Beomred, who was not of the royal line. 
Wherefore he sought to slay all that were kinsfolk 
of the kings that had reigned before him. And 
> when Thingferth heard this, he fled, and his wife 
with him. But the lad Winfrith was left behind, 
for Beornred sought not to slay him ; for he counted 
that one who was deaf and blind and lame should 
never trouble his kingdom. And when Winfrith 

10 was left alone, God had pity on him, and He opened 

his eyes and he saw. Then he stretched forth his 

limbs and he walked. Lastly his ears were opened, 

and he tried to speak, and he spake plain. 

And he grew and waxed strong and became a 

15 mighty man of valor. Then men said, " Lo, this 
youth is like Offa in the old time, who spake not till 
Rigan came to fight against Waermund, his father." 
So his name was no longer called Winfrith, but Offa. 
And all men that hated Beornred and loved the 

20 house of the old kings gathered themselves unto 
Offa, and he became their captain. 

Now Beornred heard that Winfrith lived and had 
waxed mighty, and that men no longer called him 
Winfrith but Offa, and it grieved him sore, and he 

25 repented that he had spared Winfrith and had not 
slain him when he sought to slay the house of his 
father. So Beornred gathered him an host to fight 



174 

against Off a and the men that were with him. And 
when Offa heard of it, he gathered together all his 
friends and all the men that followed him, even a 
great host, and went forth to battle against Beornred. 

And the battle waxed very sore, but towards even- 6 
tide Beornred was smitten that he died, and they 
that were with him fled and were scattered. Then 
all men came to Offa and said : " Lo, thovi hast van- 
quished Beornred the tyrant, and thou art of the 
house of our old kings. Reign thou therefore overio 
us, and we will serve thee and follow thee whither- 
soever thou leadest us." So they set the crown royal 
upon his head, and he reigned over all the people 
of the Angles that dwelt in Mercia. He sent for 
his parents back into the land, and when they died i6 
he buried them with great honor. 

So Offa was king, and he waxed mighty, and he 
smote the Welsh ofttunes, and he warred mightily 
with the other kings of the Angles and Saxons that 
were in Britahi. Moreover, he made a league with 20 
Charles, the king of the Franks, for that they two 
were the mightiest of all the kings that dwelt in the 
western lands. Moreover, he forgot not his father's 
vow, but he built a goodly minster and called it by 
the name of Alban, who was the first martyr of 25 
Christ in the isle of Britain in the old time when the 
Romans dwelt therein. And he built the minster 



176 

hard by the town of Verulam, where Albaii had died. 
And men came to dwell round about the minster, 
so that there was a new town, and men called that 
town no longer Verulam but St. Albans. 
5 And OfEa reigned thirty-nine winters, and he died, 
and they buried him in a chapel by the river of 
Ouse, hard by the town of Bedford. But there was 
a great flood in the river, which swept 
away the tomb, and the bofl_> of 
loKing OfEa, so that no man know- 
eth where he lieth to this day 

This legend of the two 
Otfas, with many others of 
a similar kind, is related 

IS in Professor Freeman's 
"Old English History." 
"This story," he says, " is 
told both by English and Edw«a a. r»«M.. 

V Danish writers, and no doubt it is one of many 

*oid stories which. are common to all the Teutonic 
nations. Or, perhaps, I should say that it is common 
to all the world, for you will easily see how like this 
story is to the tale of Croesus and his son in Herodo- 
tus. No doubt the story is one of those which the 

^ English brought with them, and for which they 
soOH^imes found a place in their new land." 




176 



THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 

This song, familiar to every American, was written by 
Francis Scott Key, while on board the British frigate " Sur- 
prise " in the harbor of Baltimore, in 1814. The War of 1812 
was still in progress. The British had laid siege to Baltimore 
and were directing their guns upon Fort McHenry. The flag 
on the fort could be distinctly seen through the earlier hours 
of the night by the glare of the battle ; but the firing finally 
ceased, and the prisoners anxiously waited for the morning 
to see whether the colors still floated from the ramparts. 
Key's feelings found expression in " The Star-Spangled Ban- 
ner," which he wrote hastily on the back of an old letter. 

Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last 

gleaming, 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the 

perilous fight, 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly 

streaming ? 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still 

there : 
Oh, say, does that Star-Spangled Banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the 
deep. 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence 
reposes, 



177 

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 

As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream : 
'Tis the Star-Spangled Banner ! Oh, long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
A home and a country should leave us no more ? 
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' 
pollution ; 
No refuge should save the hireling and slave 
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave : 
And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph doth wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

Oh, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand 

Between their loved homes and war's desolation. 
Blest with victory and peace, may the Heaven-rescued 
land 
Praise the power that hath made and preserved us 
a nation. 
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, 
And this be our motto, " In God is our trust " : 
And the Star-Spangied Banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

BOH. BEAD. lY. — 12 



178 



AMERICA. 

This song was written by Samuel F. Smith in 1832, for 
a children's Fourth of July celebration in the Park Street 
Church, Boston. It is more generally known, and has per- 
haps been oftener sung, than any other of our national 

melodies. 

My country, 'tis of thee, 

Sweet land of liberty, 

Of thee I sing ; 
Land where my fathers died. 
Land of the pilgrims' pride, 
From every mountain side 

Let freedom ring. 

My native country, thee — 
Land of the noble, free — 

Thy name I love ; 
I love thy rocks and rills. 
Thy woods and templed hills ; 
My heart with rapture thrills. 

Like that above. 

Let music swell the breeze. 
And ring from all the trees 

Sweet freedom's song ; 
Let mortal tongues awake ; 
Let all that breathe partake ; 
Let rocks their silence break, — 

The sound prolong. 



179 

Our fathers' God, to Thee, 
Author of liberty, 

To Thee we sing ; 
Long may our land be bright 
With freedom's holy light ; 
Protect us by thy might, 

Great God, our King. 



-ooj^ioo- 



THE PRODIGAL SON. 

And he said, A certain man had two sons : and 
the younger of them said to his father, " Father, give 
me the portion of goods that falleth to me." And 
he divided unto them his living. 

J And not many days after, the younger son gath- 
ered all together, and took his journey into a far 
country, and there wasted his substance with riotous 
living. And when he had spent all, there arose a 
mighty famine in that land ; and he began to be in 

10 want. And he went and joined himself to a citizen 
of that country ; and he sent him into his fields to 
feed swine. 

And he would fain have filled his belly with the 
husks that the swine did eat ; and no man gave unto 

15 him. And when he came to himself, he said, " How 
many hired servants of my father's have bread 



180 

enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger ! I 
will arise and go to my father, and will say unto 
him, Father, I have sinned against heaven and be- 
fore thee, and am no more worthy to be called 
thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants/' s 

And he arose, and came to his father. But when 
he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and 
had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and 
kissed him. 

And the son said unto him, "Father, I haveio 
sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no 
more worthy to be called thy son." 

But the father said to his servants, " Bring forth 
the best robe, and put it on him ; and put a ring on 
his hand, and shoes on his feet: and bring hither is 
the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat and be 
merry: for this my son was dead, and is alive again'; 
he was lost, and is found.'' And they began to be 
merry. 

Now his elder son was in the field; and as he 20 
came and drew nigh to the house, he heard music 
and dancing. 

And he called one of the servants, and asked what 
these things meant. 

And he said unto him, " Thy brother is come ; 25 
and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because 
he hath received him safe and sound." 



181 

And he was angry and would not go in ; therefore 
came his father out and entreated him. 

And he answering, said to his father, " Lo, these 
many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I 

5 at any time thy commandment ; and yet thou never 
gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my 
friends. But as soon as this thy son was come, 
which hath devoured thy living, thou hast killed for 
him the fatted calf." 

10 And he said unto him, " Son, thou art ever with 
me, and all that I have is thine. It was meet that 
we should make merry, and be glad : for this thy 
brother was dead, and is alive again ; and was lost, 
and is found." 

— From the Gospel according to St. Luke, 



•0<3>0<00- 



HOW DUKE WILLIAM MADE HIMSELF KING. 

15 The conquest of England by the Normans under 
Duke William was one of the most remarkable 
events in history. The story of the manner in 
which it was accomplished has been told by 
Charles Dickens, in ^' A Child's History of Eng- 

20 land," very nearly as I will repeat here: — 

Oharles Diokei 

About eight hundred and fifty years ago 
there lived a king of England whose name was 




174 

against Offa and the men that were with him. And 
when Offa heard of it, he gathered together all his 
friends and all the men that followed him, even a 
great host, and went forth to battle against Beornred. 

And the battle waxed very sore, but towards even- s 
tide Beornred was smitten that he died, and they 
that were with him fled and were scattered. Then 
all men came to Offa and said : " Lo, thou hast van- 
quished Beornred the tyrant, and thou art of the 
house of our old kings. Reign thou therefore overio 
us, and we will serve thee and follow thee whither- 
soever thou leadest us." So they set the crown royal 
upon his head, and he reigned over all the people 
of the Angles that dwelt in Mercia. He sent for 
his parents back into the land, and when they died i6 
he buried them with great honor. 

So Offa was king, and he waxed mighty, and he 
smote the Welsh ofttimes, and he warred mightily 
with the other kings of the Angles and Saxons that 
were in Britain. Moreover, he made a league with 20 
Charles, the king of the Franks, for that they two 
were the mightiest of all the kings that dwelt in the 
western lands. Moreover, he forgot not his father's 
vow, but he built a goodly minster and called it by 
the name of Alban, who was the first martyr of 26 
Christ in the isle of Britain in the old time when the 
Romans dwelt therein. And he built the minster 



175 

hard by the town of Verulam, where Alban had died. 
And men came to dwell round about the mmster, 
so that there was a new town, and men called that 
town no longer Verulam but St. Albans. 

And Offa reigned thirty-nine winters, and he died, 
and they buried him in a chapel by the river of 
Ouse, hard by the town of Bedford. But there was 
a great flood in the river, which swept 
away the tomb, and the body of 
10 King Offa, so that no man know- 
eth where he lieth to this day. 

This legend of the two 
Offas, with many others of 
a. similar kind, is related 

15 in Professor Freeman's 
"Old English History." 
"This story," he says, "is 
told both by English and ^""'"^ *' ^"'"'• 

by Danish writers, and no doubt it is one of many 

so old stories which are common to all the Teutonic 
nations. Or, perhaps, I should say that it is common 
to all the world, for you will easily see how like this 
story is to the tale of Croesus and his son in Herodo- 
tus. No doubt the story is one of those which the 

» English brought with them, and for which they 
somi^times found a place in their new land." 




176 



THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 

This song, familiar to every American, was written by 
Francis Scott Key, while on board the British frigate " Sur- 
prise " in the harbor of Baltimore, in 1814. The War of 1812 
was still in progress. The British had laid siege to Baltimore 
and were directing their guns upon Fort McHenry. The flag 
on the fort could be distinctly seen through the earlier hours 
of the night by the glare of the battle ; but the firing finally 
ceased, and the prisoners anxiously waited for the morning 
to see whether the colors still floated from the ramparts. 
Key's feelings found expression in " The Star-Spangled Ban- 
ner," which he wrote hastily on the back of an old letter. 

Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last 

gleaming. 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the 

perilous fight, 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly 

streaming ? 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still 

there : 
Oh, say, does that Star-Spangled Banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the 
deep. 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence 
reposes, 



177 

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 

As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream : 
'Tis the Star-Spangled Banner ! Oh, long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
A home and a country should leave us no more ? 
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' 
pollution ; 
No refuge should save the hireling and slave 
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave : 
And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph doth wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

Oh, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand 

Between their loved homes and war's desolation. 
Blest with victory and peace, may the Heaven-rescued 
land 
Praise the power that hath made and preserved us 
a nation. 
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, 
And this be our motto, " In God is our trust " : 
And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

8CH. BEAD. IV. — 12 



186 

were drawn up in a hollow circle, marked out by 
their shining spears. Riding round this circle at a 
distance to survey it, Harold saw a brave figure on 
horseback in a blue mantle and a bright helmet, 
whose horse suddenly stumbled and threw him. s 

" Who is that man who has fallen?" Harold asked 
of one of his captains. 

" The king of Norway,'' he replied. 

" He is a tall and stately kmg," said Harold; "but 
his end is near." lo 

He added in a little while, '' Go yonder to my 
brother and tell him, if he will withdraw his soldiers 
he shall be Earl of Northumberland and rich and 
powerful in England.'' 

The captain rode away and gave the message. 15 

"What will he give to my friend, the king of 
Norway?" asked his brother. 

" Seven feet of earth for a grave," was the 
answer. 

" No more ? " returned the brother with a smile. 20 

" The king of Norway being a tall man, perhaps a 
little more," replied the captain. 

"Ride back," said the brother, "and tell King 
Harold to make ready for the fight." 

He did so very soon. And such a fight King 26 
Harold led that day, that his brother and the Nor- 
wegian king and every chief of note in all their host, 



188 

except the Norwegian king's son, were left dead 
upon the field. 

The victorious army inarched to York. As King 
Harold sat there at feast, in the midst of all his com- 
pany, a stir was heard at the doors, and messengers i 
all covered with mire from riding far and fast came 
hurrying in, to report that the Normans had landed 
in England. 

It was true. Duke William's ships had been tossed 
about by contrary winds, and some of them had beenio 
wrecked. But now, encamped near Hastings, was 
the whole Norman power, hopeful and strong on 
English ground. 

Harold broke up the feast and hurried to London. 
Within a week his army was ready. He sent cutis 
spies to learn what was the strength of the Normans. 
William took them, caused them to be led through 
his whole camp, and then dismissed. 

"The Normans," said these spies to Harold, "are 
not bearded on the upper lip as we are, but are 20 
shorn. They are priests." 

"My men will find those priests good soldiers," 
answered Harold, with a laugh. 

In the middle of the month of October, in the year 
one thousand and sixty-six, the Normans and the 25 
English came front to front. All night the armies 
lay encamped before each other in a part of the 



189 

country then called Senlac, now called Battle. With 
the first dawn of day they arose. There, in the faint 
light, were the English on a hill. A wood lay 
behind them, and in their midst was the royal ban- 

5 ner, representing a fightirig warrior, woven in gold 
thread, adorned with precious stones. 

Beneath the banner, as it rustled in the wind, stood 
King Harold on foot, with two of his remaining 
brothers by his side; around them, still and silent 

10 as the dead, clustered the whole English army — 
every soldier covered by his shield, and bearing in 
his hand the dreaded English battle-ax. 

On an opposite hill, in three lines, — archers, foot 
soldiers, and horsemen, — was the Norman force. Of 

16 a sudden, a great battle cry, " God help us ! " burst 
from the Norman lines. The English answered with 
their own battle cry, " God's Rood ! Holy Rood ! " 
The Normans then came sweeping down the hill to 
attack the English. 

20 There was one tall Norman knight who rode before 
the Norman army on a prancing horse, throwing up 
his heavy sword and catching it, and singing of the 
bravery of his countrymen. An English knight, who 
rode. out from the English force to meet him, fell by 

^this knight's hand. Another English knight rode 
out, and he also fell ; but then a third rode out and 
killed the Norman. 



190 

The English, keeping side by side in a great mass, 
cared no more for the showers of Norman arrows 
than if they had been showers of Norman rain. 
When the Norman horsemen rode against them, 
with their battle-axes they cut men and horses 5 
down. The Normans gave way. The English 
pressed forward. A cry went forth among the 
Norman troops that Duke William w^as killed. 
Duke William took off his helmet, in order that 
his face might be distinctly seen, and rode along the 10 
line before his men. This gave them courage. 

As they turned again to face the English, some of 
their Norman horse divided the pursuing body of the 
English from the rest, and thus all that foremost 
portion of the English army fell, fighting bravely. 15 

The main body still remaining firm, heedless of 
the Norman arrows, and with their battle-axes cut- 
ting down the crowds of horsemen when they rode 
up, like forests of young trees, Duke William pre- 
tended to retreat. The eager English followed. The 20 
Norman army closed again and fell upon them with 
great slaughter. 

" Still," said Duke William, " there are thousands 
of the English firm as rocks around their king. 
Shoot upward, Norman archers, that your arrows 26 
may fall down upon their faces." 

The sun rose high, and sank, and the battle still 



191 

raged. Through all the wild October day, the clash 
and din resounded in the air. In the red sunset, and 
in the white moonlight, heaps upon heaps of dead 
men lay strewn, a dreadful spectacle, all over the 

5 ground. 

King Harold, wounded with an arrow in the eye, 
was nearly blind. His brothers were already killed. 
Twenty Norman knights now dashed forward to seize 
the royal banner from the English knights and sol- 

lodiers, still faithfully collected round their blinded 
king. The king received a mortal wound, and 
dropped. The English broke and fled. The Nor- 
mans rallied, and the day was lost. 

Oh, what a sight beneath the moon and stars, when 

15 lights were shining in the tent of the victorious Duke 
William, which was pitched near the spot where 
Harold fell — and he and his knights were carous- 
ing within — and soldiers with torches, going slowly 
to and fro without, sought for the corpse of Harold 

20 among piles of dead — and Harold's banner, worked 
in golden thread and precious stones, lay low, all 
torn and soiled with blood — and the duke's flag, 
with the three Norman Lions upon it, kept watch 
over the field. 

26 Upon the ground where the brave Harold fell, 
William the Norman afterward founded an abbey, 
called Battle Abbey, which was a rich and splendid 



192 

place through many a troubled year. But the first 
work that he had to do was to conquer the English 
thoroughly; and you must know that this was a 
thing not easy for any man to do. He overran 
several counties ; he burned many towns ; he laid i 
waste scores upon scores of miles of pleasant coun- 
try ; he destroyed a great number of lives. At 
length, on Christmas day, he was crowned in West- 
minster Abbey, under the title of William the First ; 
but he is best known as William the Conqueror. lo 

It was a strange coronation. One of the bishops 
who performed the ceremony asked the Normans, in 
French, if they would have Duke William for their 
king. They answered yes. Another of the bishops 
put the same question to the Saxons, in English. 15 
They, too, answered yes, with a loud shout. 

The noise, being heard by a guard of Norman 
horse soldiers outside, was mistaken for resistance 
on the part of the English. The guard set fire to 
the houses near by, and a great tumult followed. 2( 
Everybody was frightened, and all who could do so 
rushed out of the abbey. The king, being left alone 
with a few priests, was hurriedly crowned. When 
the crown was placed on his head, he swore to govern 
the English as well as the best of then- own mon- 2 
archs. And, if we except Alfred the Great, this he 
might very easily have done. 



198 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 

SOME OF THE AUTHORS AND ARTISTS WHOSE WORK 
IS REPRESENTED IN THIS VOLUME. 



William Bingley : English writer on natural history. Died 
in 1832. Wrote "Animal Biography," "Memoirs of British 
Quadrupeds," " Useful Knowledge." 

William Blake : English artist and poet. Born in London, 
1757; died, 1828. Wrote "Songs of Innocence and Experi- 



ence." 



Frangois Edouard Joachim Copp^e : French poet. Born, 1842. 
Has written several volumes of short stories (Conies en Prose) 
and tales in verse, besides a few successful dramas. 

Charles Dickens: The most popular of English novelists. 
Born at Landport, Portsmouth, 1812; died, 1870. Wrpte 
"Oliver Twist," "Nicholas Nickleby," "Barnaby Rudge," 
" Dombey and Son," " The Personal History of David Copper- 
field," " Bleak House," " Hard Times," " A Tale of Two Cities," 
" A Child's History of England," etc. 

George Eliot, the assumed name of Mary Ann Evans (Cross) : 
An English writer of remarkable power, best known by her 
novels. Born, 1819 ; died, 1880. Wrote " Adam Bede," " The 
Mill on the Floss," "Silas Marner," "Romola," "Middle- 
march," " Daniel Deronda," etc. 

Ralph. Waldo Emerson : American essayist and poet. Born 
in Boston, 1803 ; died, 1882. Wrote " English Traits," " Society 
and Solitude," "The Conduct of Life," "Letters and Social 
Aims," "Essays" (two volumes), "Poems," etc. 

SCH. READ. IV. — 13 



194 

Edward A. Freeman : English historian. Born, 1823 ; died, 
1892. Professor of history in the University of Oxford. 
Wrote " History of the Norman Conquest of England," ** Old 
English History," " The Ottoman Power in Europe," etc. 

Hannah F. Gould : American poet. Born in Massachusetts ; 
died, 1865. Wrote '* Hymns and Poems for Children," and 
other volumes of poetry. 

Mary Howitt : English poet. Born about 1804 ; died, 1888. 
Wrote a great number of volumes, in prose and verse, for chil- 
dren, also numerous works for older readers, most of which 
are now out of print and forgotten. 

Thomas Hughes : English author and lawyer. Born, 1823 ; 
died, 1896. Wrote "Tom Brown's School Days at Rugby," 
" Tom Brown at Oxford," " Alfred the Great," etc. 

Francis Scott Key: American lawyer and poet. Born in 
Maryland, 1779 ; died, 1843. Wrote " The Star-Spangled Ban- 
ner," and other poems. 

Ivan Kriloff (Kre-l6ff ') : A celebrated Russian fabulist. Born 
in Moscow, 1768 ; died, 1844. His " Fables " are the delight 
of all ages and classes in Russia, and they have been trans- 
lated into many languages. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : The most popular of Ameri- 
can poets. Born at Portland, Maine, 1807 ; died at Cambridge, 
Massachusetts, 1882. Wrote " Evangeline," " The Song of 
Hiawatha," "Tales of a Wayside Inn," "The Courtship of 
Miles Standish," and many shorter poems. 

Henry C. McCook : An American naturalist. Born in Ohio, 
1837. Has written " The Tenants of an Old Farm," " Honey 
and Occident Ants," " Agricultural Ants of Texas." He is one 
of the highest living authorities on ants and spiders. 

Thomas Moore : A celebrated Irish poet. Born in Dublin, 
1779; died, 1852. Wrote "National Melodies," "Irish Melo- 
dies," " Lalla Rookh," and other volumes. 



George P. Morris : An American poet and journalist. Born 
in Philadelphia, 1802; died, 1864. Wrote several popular 
poems, two of which are included in this volume. 

Thomas Buchanan Read : An American poet and artist. Born 
in Chester County, Pennsylvania, 1822; died, 1872. Wrote 
" The House by the Sea,'^ " The Wagoner of the Alleghanies," 
and many short poems. 

Mayne Reid : A novelist and writer of books for boys. Born 
in Ireland, 1818 ; died, 1883. Some of his books are " The 
Desert Home," " The Forest Exiles," " The Cliff Climbers," 
" Odd People." 

Samuel F. Smith : An American clergyman. Born in Boston, 
1808 ; died, 1895. He was the author of several lyrics, but is 
remembered chiefly for the patriotic hymn, " America." 

John Trumbull : A famous American painter. Born in Con- 
necticut, 1756; died, 1843. His most important paintings, 
including " Signing the Declaration of Independence," are 
in the rotunda of the Capitol at Washington. Nearly all 
are representations of important events in American history. 

Joseph M. W. Turner : One of the greatest of English land- 
scape painters. Born in London, 1775 ; died, 1851. According 
to Kuskin, " he surpassed all former artists in the expression 
of the infinite redundance of natural landscape." His greatest 
paintings hang in the National Gallery in London. 

Daniel Webster: A celebrated American statesman. Born 
in New Hampshire, 1782 ; died, 1852. He was the greatest 
of American orators, and one of the noblest of American 
patriots. 

Thomas Westwood: An English poet. Born, 1814; died, 
1888. He wrote "Beads from a Kosary," "The Burden of 
the Bell," and other volumes of poetry. 



196 



WORD LIST. 



THE MOST DIFFICULT WORDS IN THE PRECEDLNa 
LESSONS PRONOUNCED AND DEFINED. 



-•o*- 



KEY TO THE MARKS OF PRONUNCIATION. 



Mark. 


Name of Mark. 


a 


e 


i 


o 


u 


y 


oo 


- 


Macron . . 


fate 


mete 


fine 


note 


tube 


fly 


iiiodn 


>^ 


Breve. . . . 


fftt 


m6t 


fin 


ndt 


tilb 


hymn 


good 


,A> 


Circumflex 


fare 


thgre 


• • • • 


bOrn 


bCirn 






• • 


Dots above 


arm 


• • • • 


police 


• • • • 


• • • • 






•• 


Dots below 


all 

•• 


• • • • 


• • • • 


do 

•• 


rude 

•• 






• 


Dot above . 


grass 


• • • • 


• • • • 


son 


• • • • 






• 


Dot below . 


what 

• 


- • • • 


• • • • 


wolf 


push 






^^ 


Wave. . . . 


• • • • 


her 


dirt 


• • • • 


• • • • 






- 


Bar ..... 


.... 


they 


• • • • 


• • • • 


• • • • 







c (unmarked) or e, as in can. 

c, as in cent = s. 

ch (unmarked), as in child. 

c, as in machine = sh. 

ch, as in chorus = k. 

g or g (unmarked), as in go. 

s (unmarked) , except when used at 
the end of plural nouns or of 
verbs in the third person singular, 
sharp, as in so. 



8, like z, as in rose. 

th (unmarked), as in thin. 

^, as in this. 

n, as in iok = ng. 

^, as in e^act = gz, 

ph (unmarked), as in photograph 

= /. 
qu (unmarked), as in quit = kw. 

wh (unmarked), as in white = hw. 



ab oey. a building or home for 
monks or nuns. A church 
connected with a monastery. 



ac cSm'plish. To do ; perform ; 

complete, 
ac qiJire'. To gain ; win ; obtain. 



197 



ac'tU al ly. Really. 
a dSp'tion. Acceptance. 
a domed'. Beautified, 
advan'tage. Benefit; service. 
advSh'ture. a daring enter- 
prise, [suggestion. 
ad vi^e . An opinion given ; a 
af flxed^ Added at the end. 
a ghast^ Strack with terror, 
ag'i ta ted. stirred up. 

a gree'a ble. Pleasant. 

a kln^ Related. 

arde r man . An officer. 

a lighted. Got down. 

al lud'ed. Referred to. 

a maze'ment. Astonishment. 

an Vll. An iron block upon which 

metals are hammered, 
anx'ious. Uneasy ; disturbed, 
ap'pe tite. Desire for food. 
arch'ers. Men who shoot with 

bows and arrows. 
ar'dor. Warmth ; great desire. 
ar mor. Arms or covering for 

defense. [substance. 

ar tl cle. a particular object ; a 
aSS^m'bly. a company met 

together, 
as t5n'ish ing. Causing wonder. 

a sun'der. Apart. 

at'mos phere (St'mos f er). 

The air that surrounds us. 
attSch'ment. Affection, [tice. 
St tSn'tion (-shun). Heed ; no- 



St'ti tude. Position, 
at trSct'ed. Drawn towards, 
awed (ad). Filled with wonder. 
Sz'ure (Szh'ur). Sky-blue. 
bal lad. a simple song of the 
narrative kind. 

bap ti§'mal name. Name given 

to a child at christening, 

barl)arOUS. Savage; cruel. 

ba rSm'e ter. An instrument for 
determining the pressure of 
the atmosphere and proba- 
ble changes in the weather. 

base^eSS. without bottoms. 

beach, shore washed by waves. 

hearings (bar'ingz). Mean- 
ings ; relations. 

bgrioWS (bgrilis). An instru- 
ment for driving air through 
a tube. 

ben e dic'tion. a blessing. 

bgvles. Flocks. 
be wailing. Grieving ; weeping, 
blinking. Sparkling. 
bliis'ter ing. Boasting ; noisy, 
boll . A pod, or seed-vessel. 

bombs (biims). Shells. 

boVe al. Northern. [mined. 

bound (I'll be). I am deter- 
breach. a breaking; dispute. 
broodlings. Little birds. 
brOW§e. To graze ; to pasture. 
bur'rOW. a hole made in the 
ground by an animal. 



198 



bus'tle (biis's'l). Noise ; great 
stir. 

canoe' (kanoo'). a small 

boat driven by a paddle. 
Can'ter. An easy gallop, [tares. 
Cap'tor. One who seizes, or cap- 
Ca rOU^'ing. Drinking ; feasting. 
cSv'al cade, a procession on 
horseback, [room overhead. 
Qeiring (sering). Lining of a 

9el e bra'tion (-shun). Act of 

honoring or celebrating. 

qer'e mo ny (ser'e mo ny). 

A form of civility or re- 
ligious observance. 

chap'el. A little church. 

charm. a magical influence. 

chime, a set of bells arranged 
to ring a tune ; to sound 
in harmony. 

choir (kwir) . a band of singers. 

chorus (ko'rus). Parts of a 
song occurring at intervals; 
the singers of such parts. 

qiv'i lized. Cultivated ; refined. 

claimed (klam'd). Demanded. 

clus'tered. Collected closely to- 
gether. 

COax'ing. Persuading, [or teeth. 

cSgVheels. wheels with cogs 

cSro nies. Settlements made in 
a foreign country by per- 
sons who are still subject 
to the mother country. 



com'fort er (kura'fSrt er). 

One who comforts or makes 
cheerful ; a woolen scarf, 
com mand'ment. An order; a 
charge. [rade; partner. 

companion (-yon), a com- 
compas'sion(-pash'un). Pity 

compelled'. Obliged; forced, 
com plain'ing. Murmuring, 
con Qeals'. Hides. 
cSn'fllct. A struggle ; contest. 

con fu'sion (kSn fu'zhun). 

Disorder; destruction. 

con nec'tion (-shun). Union, 
con'quer (kSn'ker). To over- 
come, [conquering. 

con'quest (kSn'kwest). a 

cQn'se crated. Set apart to the 

service of God. 
con Sld'ered. Examined, 
contempt', shame; disgrace; 

insolent behavior. 

con tSnd'ing. striving. 

con t6nt'. Satisfied. 
cSn'tentS. Things contained. 
cSn'tinent. a grand division 

of land. 
C5n triv'anc es. Things planned. 
c5n trived'. Planned ; invented. 

c5n trolled' (k8ntrold'). Had 

charge of ; restrained, 
con vert'. To change ; to turn 

from one belief to another. 
c8r O na'tion. a crowning. 



199 



c8r'ri dors Passage-ways leading 

to different apartments. 
COUn'sel. Advice; opinion. "Took 

counsel '* = considered. 
COiir'age (kuraj). Bravery. 
Crev'ig es. Cracks. 
Crit'ic al. Dangerous; doubtful. 
CrQft. A small field. [ressing. 
dSriying. Trifling with; ca- 
de bate . To argue ; a discussion. 

deQeivlng (desevlng). 

Leading into error. 
dSdl eat ed . set apart solemnly 

for some particular purpose. 
de finance, a challenge. 
deg ert. a barren tract; wilderness. 

des o la'tion (-shun). Ruin. 

dgs'per ate . Rash ; frantic ; 
hopeless. [with dislike. 
despised'. Looked down upon 
de spoir. To plunder. 

de striic'tion (-shun). Ruin ; 

overthrow. [solved. 

deter'mined (-mind). Re- 
de void'. Empty ; destitute. 

dfa logue (dfa 16g) . Con ver- 

sation between two persons. 
dis ap poinded. Failed of expec- 
tation, [fortunate event. 

dig as'ter (diz as'ter). An un- 

dis cloged' (-klozd). Opened ; 
made plain. 

dis'cord. Strife; want of har- 
mony. 



dis cussed'. Talked about, 
dlg'mal (diz'mal). Gloomy. 

dis o bey' (d is o ba') . 'Jo neg- 
lect to do what is bidden. 

di§ §olved'. Melted ; separated. 

dis'taff . Staff to hold a bunch of 
flax from which thread is 
spun. 

dis tinct'. Plain ; separate. 

d09'ile (dSs'll). Tame ; gentle. 

dSr'mant. sleeping. 

doubt (dout). Uncertainty. 

drgad (dr6d). Fear of evil. 

dwarfs. Very small people. 

ech'oed (ek'od). Answered 
back; repeated. [being. 

ell. A fairy ; a small imaginary 

Sroquence. Effective speech; 
oratory. 

em bat'tled. in battle array. 

enam'eled. Decorated or cov- 
ered with a glossy surface. 

en dgav'or. To try ; effort. 

en er get'ic. Determined. 

en grossed' (gn grost'). 

Copied into a book, 
en list'ing. Enrolling ; entering 
on a list. [dertaking. 

Sn'ter prise (-prize). An un- 

en ti'tled. Named ; called, 
es COrt'ing. Protecting, 
esteemed', valued; regarded 
highly. [vapor, 

e Vap'o rat ing. Passing off in 



200 



ex Sm'ine (gg zSm'm). To 

look into. 
ex 9eed'ing. More than usual. 
ex pe'ri ence. Knowledge 

gained by trial ; practice. 

ex pres'sion (-shun), a mode 

of speech or utterance. 
ex tract'ed. Taken from, 
fal ter. To hesitate ; to totter. 

famiriar (-yar). Well-known; 

common. 
fam'ine. Scarcity ; dearth, 
fashioned, shaped; made. 
ferVor. Heat; energy. 
fi'ber. a thread. 
final. Ending; last. 
f it'ful ly . Irregularly ; by fits. 
fluffy. Like down. 

for bear' (for bar'). To delay; 

give up ; avoid. 

fore'fa thers. Ancestors. 

f Or'eign (f Sr'in). Distant ; out- 
side; strange. 

forge (forj). a place where 
metals are wrought by heat- 
ing and hammering. 

foun da'tion. Bottom ; base. 

frig ate. a war vessel smaller 
than a ship of the line. 

fflr'na^e. Place for inclosing a 
hot fire for melting metals, 
heating a house, etc. 

fur'row. A trench made by a 
plow; SL groove. 



game, wild meats for the table ; 
animals hunted by sports- 
men. 

gauze (gaz). a thin, transparent 
fabric, generally silk. 

gen'erous (jeneriis). No- 
ble ; open-handed. 

gird'ed. Encircled; clothed. 

glade. A cleared space in woods. 

g8s'sa iner. a fine, filmy sub- 
stance, like cobwebs, float- 
ing in the air. 

gOv'erned. Ruled. [controls. 

gOv'ernor. One who rules or 

gran'deur. Vastness ; greatness. 

gran'u lat ed. Made into grains. 

grate'£ul . Thankful. 

greetings. Expressions of kind- 
ness or joy. 

gren a dier' (-der') . Soldier, 
gro'schen (gro'shen) . a 

piece of money worth 
about two cents, [havior. 

guise (giz). Cover: cloak; be- 

gyp'sies (jip'siz). a peculiar 
race of people who have no 
settled homes, and live by 
theft, fortune-telling, etc. 

ham'per. a large basket for 
packing. 

ha n't. Have not. 

har'di hood. Boldness ; pluck. 

har'bor. a place of refuge or 
&%i«ty tor ships. 



201 



har mo ny. Agreement; concord, 
liav'oc. Destruction, 
haz'ard. Risk ; to risk. ** At all 

hazards*' = let come what 

may. 
headlong. Headforemost ; 

rashly. [place, 

hearth. Fireside; floor of a fire- 
heartl ly. sincerely. 
hea'then. An idolater, [grace. 

Heav'en-rgs'cued. Saved by 

heir (ar). one entitled to suc- 
ceed to property after the 
death of its owner. 

iiel met. a defensive covering 
for the head. 

hiriocks. Small hills, [wages. 

ilire hng. One who serves for 

his to'ri an. a writer of history. 

hold (of a ship), interior of a 
vessel below the lower deck. 

hon'or (8n ur) . To regard with 
respect ; fidelity ; high rank. 

ho ri'zon. The place where earth 
and sky seem to meet. 

host. A landlord ; a multitude. 

hSs'tler (hSs sler). One who 

has charge of horses. 

hu'mor. state of mind; pleas- 
antry. "Out of humor'* 
= vexed. 

husks. The outer covering of cer- 
tain grains and fruits. 

illumed'. Made bright. 



im Sg'i na ry (Im ajln a ry). 

Not real ; fancied, 
im pa'tience. Restlessness, 
im p8s'si ble. That can not be. 
in ca'pa ble. Lacking ability, 
in Ql dent. Event ; occurrence. 

increase (inkres' or in'- 

kres) . Growth ; addi- 
tion ; enlargement. 

in de pend'ence. Freedom from 
control. 

in d ul g'ing. Giving up to. 

in test . To trouble ; annoy. 

in'flu en^e. Moving power ; au- 
thority. 

in hab'it ants. Dwellers. 

inh&b'ited. Having inhabitants. 

inheritance. Possessions re- 
ceived by an heir. 

m laid . Ornamented by the in- 
sertion of other substances. 

in stinct. Natural impulse. 

in Struc'tion (-shun), infor- 
mation ; teaching. 

in ter est. share ; concern ; to 
entertain ; engage. 

in'ter est ing. Entertaining. 

intona'tion. a sounding the 
tones of the musical scale. 

in va sion (-zhun). Trespass ; 
hostile inroad into another's 
possessions. 

i ron-S9ep'tered sway, stem, 



202 



Jul)! lant. Rejoicing. 

] Ua ge. Am agistrate appointed to 
determine questions at law. 

km'dred. Relatives ; members 
of the same family. 

knight (nit), a title; a man 
admitted to military rank. 

knowredge (nSrej). An ac- 
quaintance with a fact, 
truth, or duty. 

lan'guage (lan'gwaj). 

Speech ; form of expression. 
ISad'en (led'n). Made of lead, 
league. Friendly treaty. 

ISg'end (lej'end) . a story of 

the past ; a fable. 

16op ard. a large spotted ani- 
mal of southern Asia. 

liv mg. Estate ; means of sub- 
sistence ; manner of life. 

loiter ing. Lingering ; delaying. 

lu na tic. An insane person. 

lu'rid. Pale yellow ; ghastly. 

man kind'. The human race. 

man' tie. a cloak. 

marsh'y. Swampy. 

mar'tial (-shal). Warlike, 
mar'tyr (-ter). One put to 

death for his religion. 

mea'ger (me'ger). Thin ; 

lean ; destitute of strength. 

mSch'an ism (mgk'an izm). 

The arrangement of the 
parts of a machine. 



mSro dy. a sweet or agreeable 

succession of sounds. 
mSm'o ry. Remembrance. 

men ag'er ie(m8n azh'er y). 

Show of wild animals. 

mSs'sage. Word sent from one 
person to another, [sages. 

mes'sen gers. Gamers of mes- 

me'te or. a luminous body seen 
in or above the atmosphere. 

mi'cro scope. An instrument 
for making enlarged images 
of small objects. [tery. 

min ster. a church of a monaS" 

mis'sal. A Mass-book. 

mSn'aS ter y . a house or dwell- 
ing for monks. 

monks (miinks). Men who re- 
tire from the world and de- 
vote themselves to religion. 

mSn'ster. something of unnatu- 
ral size, shape, or character. 

mSn'u ment. Something stand- 
ing in remembrance of a 
person, or past event. 

moored . Fastened with cables to 
the shore ; anchored. 

moor'l and . Waste land covered 
with patches of heath. 

mor tal. a human being. 

m6r'tal w ound . a wound that 

will cause death. 
mSr'tar. a mixture of sand, 
lime, and water. 



203 



move'ments. Motions. 
muffled . Wrapped in something 
to deaden sound. 

mur^miir. a low, confused 

sound ; to grumble. 

myr'i ads (mir i adz). Tens 

of thousands. 

mys te'ri ous (mis te'ri us). 

Hard to understand, 
nar ratted. Told; related. 

na'tion al (nash'un al). Pub- 
lic ; belonging to the nation. 

na tives. People bom in a coun- 
try or place mentioned. 

neigh'bor ing (na bor ing). 

Near at hand. 

nerv'ous. Sensitive ; timid. 

night'm^re. a distressing sen- 
sation in sleep. 

no'bles. Men of high rank. 

nSs'trils. The channels through 
the nose. [ported. 

nAr'tured. Nourished; sup- 

obliged'. "I am obliged to 
you"=I am indebted to 
you; thank you. 

oc ca'sion (ok ka'zhun). a 

favorable time ; occur- 
rence; opportunity. 

O pmlon (-yiin). Decision; 
judgment. 

op poge'. To resist ; set against. 

op pressed' (-prSst). Treated 
cruelly; overburdened. 



OUt'ly ing. Lying at some dis- 
tance from the main body. 
O vSl. Shaped like an egg. 
pSriid. Pale; wan. 

par'a dise (-dis, not -diz). The 

abode of the blessed. 

pa'triot. One who loves his 
country. 

pat'ron iz ing. Aiding ; acting 
as a guardian. [dried. 

pgm'mi can. Meat cut thin and 

per se vere'. To keep on trying. 

persuade' (-SWad). To influ- 
ence ; plead with. 

pil grims. Wanderers ; strangers. 

pi'ous (pfus). Good ; religious. 

plSqld (plSs'id). Smooth ; un- 
ruffled. 

plead. To beg for pity ; to speak 

by way of persuasion. 

po em. An imaginative composi- 
tion beautifully written. 

poige. To balance ; to hold up. 

po llt'ic al. Pertaining to public 
affairs. 

pol lu'tion (-shun), impurity. 

por'tal. A door ; gateway. 

pOS ses'sion (-shun). Owner- 
ship ; something owned. 

prai'ries (pra'riz). wide plains 

covered with grass. 
prSn^'ing. Springing or bound- 
ing as a horse in high 
mettle. 



204 



prS'gious (prSsh'us). Of great 

price or value. 

pre gerved'. Kept from injury. 

pri Qe'l ess. Precious ; above price. 

pri or. One who has charge of a 
priory or abbey. 

prSclama'tion. a proclaiming. 

pro duQe'. To bring ; to yield. 

prSd'uge. That which is yielded. 

pro found'. Deep ; thorough. 

profu'§ion (-zhun). Abun- 
dance, [face on the ground. 

prone. Prostrate ; lying with the 

pro phet'ic ar'dor. Having 

the enthusiasm of one who 
speaks in God's name. 

prSs'trate. Lying at length ; to 
level ; overthrow. 

pro Vid'ed. Prepared ; supplied. 

pub'lished. Made known ; sent 
out. [vegetable matter. 

pulp. A moist mass of animal or 

pul'ver ized. Ground. 

piiz'zling. Hard to understand. 

pyr'amids. Solid bodies stand- 
ing on a broad base and 
terminating in a point at 
the top. 

quaint (kwant). odd ; fanciful. 

quar tette' (kwar tet"). a 

set of four persons who 
perform a piece of music 
in four parts, 
quest (kwSst). Search ; pursuit. 



quips (kwipSy. Taunts; jests. 

quiv'ers (kwiv'erz). Trem- 
bles; shakes; shudders. 

quoth (kwoth). Said. 

raged. Was furious; stormed. 
»* The battle still raged " - 
continued furiously. 

rSm'parts. The main embank- 
ments or walls around a 
fortified place ; bulwarks. 

ran SOm. Redemption ; payment 
made for freedom or pardon. 

rap'ture. Delight ; extreme joy. 

re as SUred'. Assured again ; 
made very sure. 

re'^ent ly. Lately, [atone for. 

re deem . To ransom ; rescue ; 

re flect'ed . Bent or thrown back. 

ref U ge . Place of safety. 

re fused' (re ftizd'). Denied a 

request, command, or gift, 
re'gion (re'jun). Country. 

rehearsed' (rehersf). Re- 

peated ; practiced. 

reign (ran). Rule. 

rein (ran). The strap of a bridle 

on each side ; to hold in. 
re ject'ed. Refused. 

relieved' (relevd'). Eased; 

lightened ; released. 
rSl'lsh . To have a pleasing taste , 
to taste with pleasure. 

Speaking 
against; objecting. 



re mSn'strat ing. 



205 



•Sfi.^ . 



re mot est. Farthest away, 
re nOWn'. Praise ; state of being 

much known, 
re p^ir'ing. Mending ; restoring. 
re peat'ed . Said again, 
repent'ed. Felt sorrow or regret. 
re port . Account ; relation ; to 

give an account of. 
rep re gSnt'ing. Acting in place 

of ; portraying ; exhibiting. 
reproach\ Blame; censure, 
re pub'lic. a country in which 

the people make the laws, 
re quired\ Demanded, 
re §em'bles. To be like. 

re §ist' (re zist'). To oppose. 

re gist'ance. Opposition. 

re§ o lu'tion (rgz o lu'shun). 

Decision ; purpose. 
re specf^. Regard ; esteem. 
rSst'ive. stubborn; uneasy. 
re treat'. The act of retiring ; to 

withdraw. [echoing, 

re verb'er at ing. Resounding; 
re ward . Recompense ; to give 

in return. 

rhyme (rim), a composition in 

verse ; harmony, 
rid'i Culed. Laughed at. 

rife'. Full. 

right'eous (rrdius). Free 

from sin. [boisterous. 

ri ot OUS. Running to excess ; 
ri val. One who is in pursuit of 



the same object as another ; 

to strive to equal or excel, 
rlv'et ed. Fastened with a rivet 

or small bolt. 
ro manqe'. a tale of adventure ; 

a work of fiction, 
rtid'der. That by means of which 

a vessel is guided or steered. 
rii ral. Belonging to the country. 

Salomon (sam'mun). a kind 

of fish. 

sal U taction, a greeting. 

scenes (senz). views ; exhibi- 
tions ; landscapes. 

scheme (skem). pian; plot. 

scythe (sith). An instrument 
for mowing grass or grain. 

Sea'far ing. Following the busi- 
ness of a sailor. [tion. 

sSc'onded. Supported the mo- 

se'cret (se'kret). Hidden. 

seize (sez). To grasp; take. 
sSnseleSS. without feeling ; 

foolish. 
s8n'ti nel. a watchman. 
serene'. Bright; clear; calm. 
se'ri OUS ly. Gravely ; earnestly. 
s6t'tlement. a place newly 

settled. 

sheathed (shethd). inclosed 

in a long case or sheath. 
sheen. Brightness ; splendor. 
show'er y. Raining in showers. 



206 



= yellow curls falling softly 

and abundantly. 
slm 1 lar. Like, [cords j muscles. 
Sin'ews (sin'uz). Tendons ; 
sires (sirz). Fathers; ancestors. 
Site. Place; position. 

skew'er (sku'er). a pin of wood 

or metal for fastening meat 
in place while it is roasting. 

slaugh'ter (sla'ter). The act 

of killing ; butchery, 
sledge. A heavy hammer. 
Smelt'ing. Melting, as ore. 
soothing. Calming ; comforting, 
sore. **Grieved him sore" 

= troubled him greatly. 
SpSc'ta Cle. a noteworthy sight ; 

a glass for aiding the sight. 
Spgc'ulate. To buy with the 

expectation of selling at a 

great advance. 
sphinx (sfinks). An image in 

stone having the head of a 

man and the body of a lion, 
spirit ed . Lively ; full of life. 

sporting prints. "Room 

hung with " = pictures of 
hunting and racing hung 
on the walls. 

sprightly. Spiritedly; briskly. 

stately. Noble. 

sta'tioned (sta'shund). Made 

to stand or stay. [metal, 
stat lie. An image in stone or 



steal. ** steal away " = to go or 
take away secretly. 

stir'rup (ster'rup). a bent 

piece of metal or wood to 
receive the foot of a rider. 

stores. ** Weapons and stores" 
= weapons and supplies of 
food and other necessaries. 

strand, shore or beach. 

sub dued'. Overcame. 

siib lHne^ Lofty; noble, [erty. 

Sub'stan^e. Body; matter; prop- 

suc Qeed' (suk seed'). To fol- 
low in the same place ; 
accomplish what is wished. 

sue Qes'sor. Follower, [propose. 

SUgg6st'(sUgj6st'). Tohint; 

Suit'a ble. Proper ; fitting. 

sum'mon ing. Calling. 

SU pe'ri or. Greater. 

Sii per Stl'tious. Having exces- 
sive reverence or fear for 
that which is unknown. 

Surged. Moved back and forth. 

sur vey' (sur va'). To take a 
view of; to examine. 

swath. Line of grass cut and 
thrown together by the 
scythe. [to direct. 

sway (swa). Rule; govern; 

tally ho. A coach. 

tSrons. Claws, [cule ; jeer at. 

taunt (tant). To mock ; ridi- 

tS v'ern . a hotel ; a public house. 



207 



teregrSph (tgregraf). An 

instrument for transmitting 
words quickly to a distance. 

tem'pled. Containing temples 
or churches. 

tgnse. stretched tightly. 

thanes. Noblemen. 

theme. Subject; text, [things. 

the O ry. Doctrine ; scheme of 

thor'ough ly (thiir'o ly). 

Fully; entirely. 
threshed. Beaten soundly, [ing. 
thwack'ing. Banging; thump- 
tim'o thy. A kind of grass, 
tomb (t5om). Place of burial, 
to'tal ly. Wholly ; altogether. 
tow'er ing. very high ; lofty. 
trans gressed'. offended; done 

wrong. 
trea'cle (tre'kl). Molasses. 

treag'ured (trgzh'yurd). 

Laid up ; highly valued. 

trSnch'er. Large, wooden plate. 

tried. *» seven times tried" = 
purified, or refined, again 
and again. [to prevail. 

tri'umph (tri'timf). victory; 

trow'el (trou'6l). a mason's 
tool for spreading mortar. 

tru^e. A temporary peace. 

tu^miilt. Great commotion. 

tflrlDU lent. Disturbed ; agi- 
tated, [his subjects. 

ty rant, a ruler who oppresses 



— / 



U ni gon. Harmony ; agreement. 

Un ob gerved'. Not seen or no- 
ticed, [without reason. 

un rea§'on a ble. immoderate ; 

Va Use' (va les'). a small sack 
or case for containing 
clothes of a traveler. 

vSror. Courage. 

vSn'quished. Overcame. 

vas'sal. Subject; servant. 

VIC to'ri OUS . Triumphant. 

Vlg'or OUS. Strong. [be seen. 

Vl§ i ble (viz'l bl). That can 

VO tive. Consecrated ; devoted. 

Wain'sCOt ed. Lined with boards. 

wallet (wSriet). a knapsack ; 
a small bag. [manner. 

War'ble. To sing in a trilling 

war'rior (war yiir). a soldier. 

Waxed(wSkst). Grew; became. 

Weap'onS (wep'unz). instru- 
ments to fight with. 

wharf. A platform where ships 
take and discharge their 
cargo. [horse. 

whin'nies. Cries or calls like a 
Whlth'er SO ev'er. To what- 
ever place. [huts. 

WlgVamS (-wSmz). Indian 

Wmd'rOWS. Lines of hay raked 
together. 

Wizards. Magicians; enchanters. 

wdod'chiick. a ground hog. 

wrecked (rekt). Broken to 

pieces; ruined. 



208 



PROPER NAMES PRONOUNCED. 



Adele (adelg). 
JEUa (61'la). 
Alban (al'ban). 
Amazon (&m'azon). 
Arabia(ara'bla). 
Arabs (^r'abz). 
Augustine (a'gust^n). 

Baltimore (bal't!m6r). 

Beomred (b6 6rn'r6d). 

Berkeley Manor (b^rk'ly mSn'or). 

Brandon (briu'don). 

Brazil (brazil'). 

Britain (brit'in). 

Canterbury (can'terbgrr^). 
Christmas (krist'mas). 
Concord (k6nk'6rd). 
Crispin (krls^pln). 

Daniel (dan'y'l). 
Delaware (dfil'awar). 
Derwent (d6r'w6nt). 
Dorlcote (d6rl'k6t). 
Draupner ^drap'nSr). 

Egypt (P :ipt). 
Egyptian (6 jTp'shun). 
Ethelbert (6th'elb5rt). 
Europe (u'rup). 
Ezekiel (6z6'klel). 

Florida (fl6r1dA). 
tTey (fri). 

Galilee (gai'Ile). 
Granada (grana'da). 
Gregory (grgg'orj^). 
Gungner (gung'nSr). 
Guy (gi). 

Hardrada rhardra'da). 
Hesperus (h6s'p5r lis) . 
Herodotus (h6r6d'0tiis). 
Hildebrand (hll'de brind) 

Isabella (!z a h^Vlk) 
Italian (Itai'yan). 
Ivald (I'vftld). 



Japan (j&pSn'). 

La Rabida (l&rab1d&). 
Leicester (16s't6r). 
Lexington . (I§x1ng ttin). 
Loki (I0'kl)._ 
Louisiana (loo 6 z6 &'na). 

Mahon (mahOn'). 
Mercia (mgr'sliga). 
Michigan (mish'igan). 
Mjolner (my61'n6r). 
Moors (moorz). 

Newfoundland (nu'f Cind l&nd), 
Nifia (ngn'ya). 
Normandy (ndr'mJndy). 
Norwegian (ndrwfijln). 

Odin (O'din). 
Offa (6£fa). 
Ouse (ooz). 

Palos (pa'lOs). 
Perez (p6'r§z). 
Phoenix (fg'niks). 
Pinta (pln'tA). 

Higan (rg'gSn). 
Rouen (r6b6n'). 

Salamanca (sai&man'k&). 
San Salvador (san saiv&dOr'*). 
Santa Maria (sftn t& m&r6'a). 
Senlac (s6nMak). 
Sindre (sln'd6r). 
Skidbladner (skld'blftd nSr). 
Swegen (swfi'gen). 

Teutonic (tdtSnlk). 
Thanet (thSn'St). 
Thingferth (thIngfSrth). 
Thor (thdr). 

Verulam (v6r'65l5m). 
Vincent (vIn'sSnt). 

Wsermund (w&r'mttnd). 
Winfrith (win'frlth). 



SCHOOL READING BY GRADES 



FIFTH YEAR 



JAMES BALDWIN 




NEW YORK ■;■ CINCINNATI ;■ CHICAGO 

AMEKICAN BOOK COMPANY 



Copyright, 1897, by 
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY. 



8CU. READ. FIFTH TEAR. 
W. P. 3 



PREFACE. 



Thb pupil who has read the earlier numbers of this series is now pre- 
pared to study with some degree of care the peculiarities of style which 
distinguish the different selections in the present volume. Hence, while 
due attention must be given to the study of words merely as words, — 
that is to spelling, defining, and pronouncing, — considerable time should 
be occupied in observing and discussing the literary contents, the author's 
manner of narrating a story, of describing an action or an appearance, of 
portraying emotion, of producing an impression upon the mind of the 
reader or the hearer. The pupils should be encouraged to seek for and 
point out the particular passages or expressions in each selection which 
are distinguished for their beauty, their truth, or their peculiar adapta- 
bility to the purpose in view. The habit should be cultivated of looking 
for and enjoying the admirable qualities of any literary production, and 
particularly of such productions as are by common consent recognized 
as classical. 

The lessons in this volume have been selected and arranged with a 
view towards several ends : to interest the young reader ; to cultivate a 
taste for the best style of literature as regards both thought and expres- 
sion ; to point the way to an acquaintance with good books ; to appeal to 
the pupil's sense of duty, and strengthen his desire to do right ; to arouse 
patriotic feelings and a just pride in the achievements of our country- 
men ; and incidentally to add somewhat to the learner's knowledge of 
history and science and art. 

The illustrations will prove to be valuable adjuncts to the text. Spell- 
ing, defining, and punctuation should continue to receive special attention. 
Difficult words and idiomatic expressions should be carefully studied with 
the aid of the dictionary and of the Word List at the end of this volume. 
Persistent and systematic practice in the pronunciation of these words 
and of other difficult combinations of sounds will aid in training the 
pupils' voices to habits of careful articulation and correct enunciation. 

While literary biography can be of but little, if any, value in culti- 
vating literary taste, it is desirable that pupils should acquire some knowl- 
edge of the writers whose productions are placed before them for study. 
To assist in the acquisition of this knowledge, and also to serve for ready 
reference, a few Biographical Notes are inserted towards the end of the 
volume. The brief suggestions given on page 6 should be read and com- 
mented upon at the beginning, and frequently referred to and practically 
applied in the lessons which follow. 



CONTENTS. 



ADAPTED FROM PAGE 

Something about Books John Buskin 7 

Old Chiron's School Charles Kingsley ... 12 

The Dog of Montargis Old Legend 19 

The Old Oaken Bucket Samuel Woodworth ... 29 

The Village Blacksmith Henry W. Longfellow . . 30 

The Choice of Hercules 34 

Christmas at the Cratchits' .... Charles Dickens .... 37 

On the Mountain St. Matthew 45 

Betsey Hull's Wedding Nathaniel Hawthorne . . 48 

Ulysses and the Cyclops Horner^ s ^^ Odyssey'''' . . 54 

The Brook Alfred Tennyson .... 67 

The Lady of Shalott Alfred Tennyson .... 70 

Lessons from Nature's Book .... Sir Archibald Geikie . . 79 

The Goodman of Ballengiech . . . Sir Walter Scott .... 87 

Bugle Song Alfred Tennyson .... 92 

Some Experiences at Sea Bichard Henry Dana, Jr. . 93 

Daniel Boone George Bancroft .... 100 

Fulton's First Steamboat Bohert Fulton .... 108 

The Planting of the Apple Tree . . . William Cullen Bryant . Ill 

The Corn Song John G . Whittier . ... 114 

Hunting the Walrus 117 

The Destruction of Pompeii. 

I. History Charles Kingsley . . . 124 

II. Romance Sir E. Biilwer Lytton . . 130 



ADAPTED FROM 

The Stranger on the Sill Thomas Buchanan Bead . 



Our Country. 

I. What is Our Country ? 

II. Liberty and Union . . 

III. Our Sacred Obligations 

A Legend of Sleepy Hollow 

The Mariner's Dream . . 



The Sands o' Dee . . . 
The Invention of Printing 
The Wanderer .... 
Lead Thou Me on . . . 
The American Indian . . 
The Passing of King Aithur 



Biographical Notes . . 

Word List 

Proper Names Pronounced 



Thomas Orimke . 
Daniel Webster . 
Daniel Webster . 
Washington Irvine/ 
William Dimond . 
Charles Kingsley . 



Eugene Field . . 
John Henry Newman 
Charles Sprague . . 
Sir Thomas Malory 



PAGE 

140 



142 
143 
144 
146 
166 
169 
170 
183 
184 
185 
187 

193 
196 
208 



Acknowledgments are due to Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, pub- 
lishers of the works of Eugene Field, for permission to use the poem 
entitled "The Wanderer"; to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., pub- 
lishers of the works of H. W. Longfellow and J. G. Whittier, for the use 
of ** The Village Blacksmith " and " The Corn Song'' ; and to The J. B. 
Lippincott Company, publishers of the poems of T. Buchanan Read, for 
the piece entitled **The Stranger on the Sill." 



TO THE LEARNER. 



A FAMOUS writer has said that the habit of reading is one's pass to 
the greatest, the purest, the mog'i perfect pleasures that have been pre- 
pared for human beings. "But," he continued, "you cannot acquire 
this habit in your old age ; you cannot acquire it in middle age ; you 
must do it now, when you are young. You must leam to read, and to 
like reading now, or you cannot do so when you are old." Now, no one 
can derive very great pleasure or very great profit from reading unless he 
is able to read well. The boy or girl who stumbles over every hard word, 
or who is at a loss to know the meaning of this or that expression, is not 
likely to find much enjoyment in books. To read well to one's self, one 
must be able to read aloud in such a manner as to interest and delight 
those who listen to him: and this is the chief reason why we have so 
many reading books at school, and why your teachers are so careful that 
you should acquire the ability to enunciate every sound distinctly, pro- 
nounce every word properly, and read every sentence readily and with a 
clear understanding of its meaning. 

Is the reading exercise a task to you ? Try to make it a pleasure. 
Ask yourself : What is there in this lesson that teaches me something 
which I did not know before? What is there in this lesson that is 
beautiful, or grand, or inspiring? Has the writer said anything in a 
manner that is particularly pleasing — in a manner that perhaps no one 
else would have thought to say it ? What particular thought or saying, 
in this lesson, is so good and true that it is worth learning by heart and 
remembering always. Does the selection as a whole teach an^'thing that 
will tend to make me wiser, or better, or stronger than before ? Or is it 
merely a source of temporary amusement to be soon forgotten and as 
though it had never been ? Or does it, like fine music or a noble picture, 
not only give present pleasure, but enlarge my capacity for enjoyment 
and enable me to discover and appreciate beautiful things in literature 
and art and nature which I would otherwise never have known ? 

When you have asked yourself all these questions about any selection, 
and have studied it carefully to find answers to them, you will be pre- 
pared to read it aloud to your teacher and your classmates ; and you will 
be surprised to notice how much better you have read it than would have 
been the case had you attempted it merely as a task or as an exercise 
in the pronouncing of words. It is by thus always seeking to discover 
things instructive and beautiful and enjoyable in books, that one acquires 
that right habit of reading which has been spoken of as the pass to the 
greatest, the purest, the most perfect of pleasures. 



SCHOOL READING. 

FIFTH YEAR. 



SOMETHING ABOUT BOOKS. 

A beautiful book, and one profitable to those 
who read it carefully, is "Sesame and Lilies" by 
John Euskin. It ia beautiful be- 
cause of the pleasant languagt lUil 

6 choice words in which it is 
written ; for, of all our later 
writers, no one is the mas- 
ter of a style more pure and 
more delightful in its sim- 

loplicity than Mr. Ruskin's. 
It is profitable because of the 
lessons which it teaches; 
for it was written '' to show 
somewhat the use and pre- 

uciousness of good books, and to awaken in the minds 
of young people some thought of the purposes of 
the life into which they are entering, and the nature 
of the world they have to conquer." The follow- 




8 

ing pertinent words concerning the choice of book 
have been taken mainly from its pages: 



All books may be divided into two classes, — books, 
of the hour, and books of all time. Yet it is not 
merely the bad book that does not last, and the good 
one that does. There are good books for the hour 
and good ones for all time ; bad books for the hour 
and bad ones for all time. 

The good book of the hour, — I do not speak 
of the bad ones, — is simply the useful or pleasant t 
talk of some person printed for you. Very useful 
often, telling you what you need to know ; very 
pleasant often, as a sensible friend's present talk 
would be. 

These bright accounts of travels, good-humored is 
and witty discussions of questions, lively or pathetic 
story-telling m the form of novel : all these are books 
of the hour and are the peculiar possession of the 
present age. We ought to be entirely thankful for 
them, and entirely ashamed of ourselves if we make ao 
no good, use of them. But we make the worst 
possible use, if we allow them to usurp the place 
of true books; for, strictly speaking, they are not 
books at all, but merely letters or newspapers in 
good print. 25 

Our friend's letter may be delightful, or necessary, 



9 

to-day ; whether worth keeping or not, is to be con- 
sidered. The newspaper may be entirely proper at 
breakfast time, but it is not reading for all day. 
So, though bound up in a volume, the long letter 

> which gives you so pleasant an account of the inns 
and roads and weather last year at such a place, 
or which tells you some amusing story, or relates 
such and such circumstances of interest, may not 
be, in the real sense of the word, a hook at all, nor, 

10 in the real sense, to be read. 

A book is not a talked thing, but a written thing. 
The book of talk is printed only because its author 
can not speak to thousands of people at once ; if he 
could, he would — the volume is mere multiplica- 

16 tion of the voice. You can not talk to your friend 
in India ; if you could, you would ; you write instead ; 
that is merely a way of carrying the voice. 

But a book is ivritteriy not to multiply the voice 
merely, not to carry it merely, but to preserve it. The 
20 author has something to say which he perceives to 
be true and useful, or helpfully beautiful. So far as 
he knows, no one has yet said it ; so far as he knows, 
no one can say it. He is bound to say it, clearly and in 
a melodious manner if he may ; clearly, at all events. 
25 In the sum of his life he finds this to be the thing, 
or group of things, manifest to him ; this the piece of 
true knowledge, or sight, which his share of sunshine 



10 

and earth has allowed him to seize. He would set 
it down forever ; carve it on a rock, if he could, say- 
ing, " This is the best of me ; for the rest, I ate and 
drank and slept, loved and hated, like another ; my 
life was as the vapor, and is not; but this I saw 
and knew; this, if anything of mine, is worth your 
memory." That is his writing ; that is a hook. 

Now books of this kind have been written in all 
ages by their greatest men — by great leaders, great 
statesmen, great thinkers. These are all at your i<? 
choice ; and life is short. You have heard as much 
before ; yet have you measured and mapped out this 
short life and its possibilities ? Do you know, if you 
read this, that you can not read that — that what you 
lose to-day you can not gain to-morrow ? is 

Will you go and gossip with the housemaid, or the 
stableboy, when you may talk with queens and kings ? 
Do you ask to be the companion of nobles ? Make 
yourself noble, and you shall be. Do you long for 
the conversation of the wise ? Learn to understand 20 
it, and you shall hear it. 

Very ready we are to say of a book, " How good 
this is — that is just what I think ! " But the right 
feeling is, " How strange that is ! I never thought 
of that before, and yet I see it is true ; or if I do not 25 
now, I hope I shall, some day." 

But whether you feel thus or not, at least be sure 



that you go to the author to get at his meaning, not 
to find yours. And be sure also, if the author is 
worth anything, that you will not get at his mean- 
ing all at once ; nay, that at his whole meaning you 

5 may not for a long time arrive in any wise. Not 
that he does not say what he means, and in strong 
words too; but he can not say it all, and, what is 
more strange, will not, but in a hidden way in order 
that he may be sure you want it. 

10 When, therefore, you come to a good book, you 
must ask yourself, " Am I ready to work as an Aus- 
tralian miner would ? Are my pickaxes in good 
order, and am I in good trim myself, my sleeves 
well up to the elbow, and my breath good, and my 

15 temper?" For your pickaxes are your own care, 
wit, and learning ; your smelting furnace is your 
own thoughtful soul. Do not hope to get at any 
good author's meaning without these tools and that 
fire ; often you will need sharpest, finest carving, and 

20 the most careful melting, before you can gather one 
grain of the precious gold. 

I can not, of course, tell you what to choose for 
your library, for every several mind needs different 
books ; but there are some books which we all need, 

25 and which if you read as much as you ought, you 
will not need to have your shelves enlarged to right 
and left for purposes of study. 



12 



If you want to understand any subject whatever, 
read the best book upon it you can hear of. A 
common book will often give you amusement, but 
it is only a noble book that will give you dear 
friends. 5 

Avoid that class of literature which has a know- 
ing tone; it is the most poisonous of all. Every 
good book, or piece of book, is full of admiration 
and awe ; and it always leads you to reverence or 
love something with your whole heart. 10 



-oojOio*^ 



OLD CHIRON'S SCHOOL. 

^son was king of lolcus by the sea ; but for all 
that, he was an unhappy man. For he had a step- 
brother named Pelias, a fierce and lawless man who 
was the doer of many a fearful deed, and about whom 
many dark and sad tales were told. And at last^^ 
Pelias drove out ^son, his stepbrother, and took 
the kingdom for himself, and ruled over the rich 
town of lolcus by the sea. 

And iEson, when he was driven out, went sadly 
away from the town, leading his little son by the hancl V 
and he said to himself, " I must hide the child in th^^ 
mountains, or Pelias will surely kill him, because fc^-^ 



13 

is the heir." So he went up from the sea across the 
valley, through the vineyards and the olive groves, 
and across a foaming torrent toward Pelion, the 
ancient mountain, whose brows are white with 

» snow. 

He went up and up into the mountain, over marsh 
and crag, and down, till the boy was tired and foot- 
sore, and ^son had to bear him in his arms, till he 
came to the mouth of a lonely cave at the foot of a 

10 mighty cliff. Above the cliff the snow wreaths hung, 
dripping and cracking in the sun ; but at its foot, 
around the cave's mouth, grew all fair flowers and 
herbs, as if in a garden arranged in order, each 
sort by itself. There they grew gayly in the sun- 

15 shine, and in the spray of the torrent from above ; 
while from the cave came a sound of music, and a 
man's voice singing to the harp. 

Then JEson put down the lad, and whispered : 

" Fear not, but go in, and whomsoever you shall 

20 find, lay your hands upon his knees, and say, ' In the 
name of the Father of gods and men, I am your 
guest from this day forth.' " 

Then the lad went in without trembling, for he 
too was a hero's son ; but when he was within, he 

25 stopped in wonder, to listen to that magic song. 

And there he saw the singer lying upon bearskins 
and fragrant boughs; Chiron, the ancient Centaur, 



14 

the wisest of all beings beneath the sky. Down to 
the waist he was a man ; but below he was a noble 
horse ; his white hair rolled down over his broad 
shoulders, and his white beard over his broad brown 
chest ; and his eyes were wise and mild, and his 6 
forehead like a mountain wall. 

And in his hands he held a harp of gold, and 
struck it wdth a golden key; and as he struck he 
sang till his eyes glittered, and filled all the cave 
with light. 10 

And he sang of the birth of Time, and of the 
heavens and the dancing stars ; and of the ocean, and 
the ether, and the fire, and the shaping of the won- 
drous earth. And he sang of the treasures of the 
hills, and the hidden jewels of the mine, and thei5 
veins of fire and metal, and the virtues of all healing 
herbs ; and of the speech of birds, and of prophecy, 
and of hidden things to come. 

Then he sang of health, and strength, and man- 
hood, and a valiant heart ; and of music and hunting, 20 
and wrestling, and all the games which heroes love ; 
and of travel, and wars, and sieges, and a noble 
death in fight ; and then he sang of peace and plenty, 
and of equal justice in the land ; and as he sang, the 
boy listened wide-eyed, and forgot his errand in the 25 
song. 

And at last Chiron was silent, and called the lad 



15 

with a soft voice. And the lad ran trembling to 
him, and would have laid his hands upon his knees ; 
but Chiron smiled, and said, "Call hither your 
father ^son; for I know you and all that has 

6 befallen you." 

Then ^son came in sadly, and Chiron asked him, 
^' Why came you not yourself to me, ^son ? '' 

And ^son said : "I thought, Chiron will pity the 
lad if he sees him come alone ; and I wished to try 

10 whether he was fearless, and dare venture like a 
hero's son. But now I entreat you, let the boy be 
your guest till better times, and train him among the 
sons of the heroes that he may become like them, 
strong and brave." 

15 And Chiron answered : " Go back in peace and 
bend before the storm like a prudent man. This boy 
shall not leave me till he has become a glory to you 
and to your house." 

And ^son wept over his son and went away ; but 

20 the boy did not weep, so full was his fancy of that 
strange cave, and the Centaur, and his song, and the 
playfellows whom he was to see. Then Chiron put 
the lyre into his hands, and taught him how to play 
it, till the sun sank low behind the cliff, and a shout 

25 was heard outside. And then in came the sons of 
the heroes, — ^neas, and Hercules, and Peleus, and 
many another mighty name. 



And great Chiron leaped np joyfully, and hia 
hoofs made the cave resound, as they shouted, " Come 
out. Father Chiron ; come out and see our game." 
And one cried, "I have killed two deer," and an- 




la of the horoei 

other, "I took a wild cat among the crags." And i 
Hercules dragged a wild goat after him by its 
horns ; and Cseneus carried a bear cub under each 
arm, and laughed when they scratched and bit; 
for neither tooth nor steel could wound him. And 
Chiron praised them all, each according to his n 
deserts. 

Only one walked apart and silent, ^sculapius, the 



17 

too wise child, with his bosom full of herbs and 
flowers, and round his wrist a spotted snake ; he 
came with downcast eyes to Chiron, and whis- 
pered how he had watched the snake cast his old 
5 skin, and grow young again before his eyes, and 
how he had gone down into a village in the vale, 
and cured a dying man with a herb which he had 
90exi a sick goat eat. And Chiron smiled and said : 

*^ To each there has been given his own gift, and 
10 each is worthy in his place. But to this child there 
has been given an honor beyond all honors, — to cure 
while others kill." 

Then some of the lads brought in wood, and split 

it, and lighted a blazing fire ; and ofliers skinned 

15 the deer and quartered them, and set them to roast 

before the fire ; and while the venison was cooking 

they bathed in the snow torrent, and washed away 

the dust and sweat. And then all ate till they could 

eat no more — for they had tasted nothing since the 

20 dawn — and drank of the clear spring water, for 

wine is not fit for growing lads. And when the 

remnants were put away, they all lay down upon 

the skins and leaves about the fire, and each took 

the lyre in turn, and sang and played with all his 

25 heart. 

And after a while they all went out to a plot of 
grass at the cave's mouth, and there they boxed, and 

SCH. READ. V. 2 



18 

ran, and wrestled, and laughed till the stones fell 
from the cliffs. 

Then Chiron took his lyre, and all the lads 
joined hands ; and as he played, they danced to 
his measure, in and out, and round and round. 5 
There they danced hand in hand, till the night fell 
over land and sea, while the black glen shone with 
their broad white limbs, and the gleam of their 
golden hair. 

And the lad danced witli them, delighted, and 10 
then slept a wholesome sleep, upon fragrant leaves 
of bay, and myrtle, and marjoram, and flowers of 
thyme ; and rose at the dawn, and bathed in the 
torrent, and •became a schoolfellow to the heroes' 
sons. And in course of time he forgot lolcus, and 15 
^son his father, and all his former life. But he 
grew strong, and brave, and cunning, upon the 
rocky heights of Pelion, in the keen, hungry, moun- 
tain air. And he learned to wrestle, and to box, 
and to hunt, and to play upon the harp ; and, next, 20 
he learned to ride, for old Chiron often allowed him 
to mount upon his back ; and he learned the virtues 
of all herbs, and how to cure all wounds ; and Chiron 
called him Jason the healer, and that is his name 
until this day. ^ 

— From ''The Heroes; or Greek Fairy Tales/' by Charles 
Kingsley. 



19 

THE DOG OF MONTARGIS. 

1. 

In the old castle of Montargis in France, there 
was once a stone mantelpiece of workmanship so 
rare that it was talked about by the whole country. 
And yet it was not altogether its beauty that caused 

5 people to speak of it and remember it. It was 
famous rather on account of the strange scene that 
was carved upon it. To those who asked about its 
meaning, the old custodian of the castle would some- 
times tell the following story. 

10 It happened more than five hundred years ago, 
when this castle was new and strong, and people 
lived and thought in very different sort from what 
they do now. Among the young men of that time 
there was none more noble than Aubrey de Mont- 

15 didier, the nephew of the Count of Montargis ; and 

among all the knights who had favor at the royal 

court, there was none more brave than the young 

Sieur de Narsac, captain of the king's men at arms. 

Now these two men were devoted friends, and 

20 whenever their other duties allowed them, they were 
sure to be in each other's company. Indeed, it was 
a rare thing to see either of them walking the streets 
of Paris alone. 

*^I will meet you at the tournament to-morrow," 



20 

said Aubrey gayly, one evening, as he was parting 
from his friend. 

" Yes, at the tournament to-morrow," said De 
Narsac ; " and be sure that you come early." 

The tournament was to be a grand affair. A 5 
gentleman from Provence was to run a tilt with a 
famous Burgundian knight. Both men were noted 
for their horsemanship and their skill with the lance. 
All Paris would be out to see them. 

When the time came, De Narsac was at the place lo 
appointed. But Aubrey failed to appear. What 
could it mean ? It was not at all like Aubrey to 
forget his promise ; it was seldom that he allowed 
anything to keep him away from the tournament. 

" Have you seen my friend Aubrey to-day ?" De i5 
Narsac asked this question a hundred times. Every- 
body gave the same answer, and wondered what had 
happened. 

The day passed and another day came, and still 
there was no news from Aubrey. De Narsac had 20 
called at his friend's lodgings, but could learn noth- 
ing. The young man had not been seen since the 
morning before the tournament. 

Three days passed, and still not a word. De 
Narsac was greatly troubled. He knew now that 25 
some accident must have happened to Aubrey. But 
what could it have been ? 



21 

Early in the morning of the fourth day he was 
aroused by a strange noise at his door. He dressed 
himself in haste and opened it. A dog was crouch- 
ing there. It was a greyhound, so poor that its 
6 ribs stuck out, so weak that it could hardly stand. 

De Narsac knew the animal without looking at 

the collar on its neck. It was Dragon, his friend 

Aubrey's greyhound, — the dog who went with him 

whenever he walked out, the dog who was never 

10 seen save in its master's company. 

The poor creature tried to stand. His legs 
trembled from weakness ; he swayed from side to 
side. He wagged his tail feebly, and tried to put 
his nose in De Narsac's hand. De Narsac saw at 
15 once that he was half starved ; that he had not had 
food for a long time. 

He led the dog into his room and fed him some 

warm milk. He bathed the poor fellow's nose and 

bloodshot eyes with cold water. " Tell me where is 

20 your master," he said. Then he set before him a 

full meal that w^ould have tempted any dog. 

The greyhound ate heartily, and seemed to be 

much stronger. He licked De Narsac's hands. He 

fondled his feet. Then he ran to the door and 

26 tried to make signs to his friend to follow him. He 

whined pitifully. 

De Narsac understood. '' You want to lead me to 



22 

your master, I see/' He put on his hat and went 
out with the dog. 

Through the narrow lanes and crooked streets of 
the old city, Dragon led the way. At each corner 
he would stop and look back to make sure that De s 
Narsac was following. He went over the long 
bridge — the only one that spanned the river in 
those days. Then he trotted out through the gate 
of St. Martin and into the open country beyond the 
walls. 10 

In a little while the dog left the main road and 
took a bypath that led into the forest of Bondy. De 
Narsac kept his hand on his sword now, for they 
were on dangerous ground. The forest was a great 
resort for robbers and lawless men, and more than 15 
one wild and wicked deed had been enacted there. 

But Dragon did not go far into the woods. He 
stopped suddenly near a dense thicket of briers 
and tangled vines. He whined as though in great 
distress. Then he took hold of the sleeve of De 20 
Narsac's coat, and led him round to the other side 
of the thicket. 

There under a low-spreading oak the grass had 
been trampled down ; there were signs, too, of 
freshly turned-up earth. With moans of distress 25 
the dog stretched himself upon the ground, and 
with pleading eyes looked up into De Narsac's face. 



23 

" Ah, my poor fellow ! " said De Narsac, " you 
have led me here to show me your master's grave." 
And with that he turned and hurried back to the 
city ; but the dog would not stir from his place. 

5 That afternoon a company of men, led by De 

Narsac, rode out to the forest. They found in the 

ground beneath the oak what they had expected — 

the murdered body of young Aubrey de Montdidier. 

" Who could have done this foul deed ? " they 

10 asked of one another ; and then they wept, for they 
all loved Aubrey. 

They made a litter of green branches, and laid the 
body upon it. Then, the dog following them, they 
carried it back to the city and buried it in the king's 

15 cemetery. And all Paris mourned the untimely end 
of the brave young knight. 



II. 



After this, the greyhound went to live with the 

young Sieur de Narsac. He followed the knight 

wherever he went. He slept in his room and ate 

^ from his hand. He seemed to be as much devoted 

to his new master as he had been to the old. 

One morning they went out for a stroll through 
the city. The streets were crowded ; for it was a 
holiday and all the fine people of Paris were enjoying 



the sunlight and the fresh air. Dragon, as usual, 
kept close to the heels of his master. 

De Narsac walked down one street and up another, 
meeting many of his friends, and now and then 
stopping to talk a little while. Suddenly, as they i 



The dog planted hluMlf In fVoat of hli m&itar. 

were passing a corner, the dog leaped forward and 
planted himself in front of his master. He growled 
fiercely ; he crouched as though ready for a spring ; 
his eyes were fixed upon some one in the crowd. 

Then, before De Narsac could speak, he leaped lo 
forward upon a young man whom he had singled 



25 

out. The man threw up his arm to save his throat ; 
but the quickness of the attack and the weight of 
the dog caused him to fall to the ground. There is 
no telling what might have followed had not those 

5 who were with him beaten the dog with their canes, 
and driven him away. 

De Narsac knew the man. His name was Richard 
Macaire, and he belonged to the king's bodyguard. 
Never before had the greyhound been known to 

10 show anger towards any person. "What do you 
mean by such conduct?" asked his master as they 
walked homeward. Dragon's only answer was a 
low growl ; but it was the best that he could give. 
The affair had put a thought into De Narsac' s mind 

15 which he could not dismiss. 

Within less than a week the thing happened again. 
This time Macaire was walking in the public garden. 
De Narsac and the dog were some distance away. 
But as soon as Dragon saw the man, he rushed at 

20 him. It was all that the bystanders could do to keep 
him from throttling Macaire. De Narsac hurried up 
and called him away ; but the dog's anger was fear- 
ful to see. 

It was well known in Paris that Macaire and 
25 young Aubrey had not been friends. It was remem- 
bered that they had had more than one quarrel. 
And now the people began to talk about the dog's 



26 

strange actions, and some went so far as to put this 
and that together. 

At last the matter reached the ears of the king. 
He sent for De Narsac and had a long talk with 
him. "Come back to-morrow and bring the dog 5 
with you," he said. " We must find out more about 
this strange affair." 

The next day De Narsac, with Dragon at his heels, 
was admitted into the king's audience room. The 
king was seated in his great chair, and many knights 10 
and men at arms were standing around him. Hardly 
had De Narsac stepped inside when the dog leaped 
quickly forward. He had seen Macaire, and had 
singled him out from among all the rest. He sprang 
upon him. He would have torn him in pieces if no 15 
one had interfered. 

There was now only one way to explain the 
matter. 

"This greyhound," said De Narsac, "is here to 
denounce the Chevalier Macaire as the slayer of his 20 
master, young Aubrey de Montdidier. He demands 
that justice be done, and that the murderer be pun- 
ished for his crime." 

The Chevalier Macaire was pale and trembling. 
He stammered a denial of his guilt, and declared 25 
that the dog was a dangerous beast, and ought to be 
put out of the way. " Shall a soldier in the service 



27 

of the king be accused by a dog ?" he cried. " Shall 
he be condemned on such testimony as this ? I, too, 
demand justice." 

" Let the judgment of God decide ! " cried the 

5 knights who were present. 

And so the king declared that there should be a 
trial by the judgment of God. For in those rude 
times it was a very common thing to determine guilt 
or innocence in this way — that is, by a combat 

10 between the accuser and the accused. In such cases 
it was believed that God would always aid the cause 
of the innocent and bring about the defeat of the 
guilty. 

The combat was to take place that very afternoon 

15 in the great common by the riverside. The king's 
herald made a public announcement of it, naming the 
dog as the accuser and the Chevalier Macaire as the 
accused. A great crowd of people assembled to see 
this strange trial by the judgment of God. 

20 The king and his officers were there to make sure 
that no injustice was done to either the man or the 
dog. The man was allowed to defend himself with 
a short stick ; the dog was given a barrel into which 
he might run if too closely pressed. 

25 At a signal the combat began. Macaire stood 
upon his guard while the dog darted swiftly around 
him, dodging the blows that were aimed at him, and 



28 

trying to get at his enemy's throat. The man seemed 
to have lost all his courage. His breath came short 
and quick. He was trembling from head to foot. 

Suddenly the dog leaped upon him and threw hiin 
to the ground. In his great terror he cried to the 5 
king for mercy, and acknowledged his guilt. 

" It is the judgment of God ! " cried the king. 

The officers rushed in and dragged the dog away 
before he could harm the guilty man ; and Macaire 
was hurried off to the punishment which his crimes 10 
deserved. 

And this is the scene that was carved on the old 
mantelpiece in the castle of Montargis — this strange 
trial by the judgment of God. Is it not fitting that 
a dog so faithful, devoted, and brave should have his 15 
memory thus preserved in stone ? He is remembered 
also in story and song. In France ballads have been 
written about him ; and his strange history has been 
dramatized in both French and English. 





THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood, 

When fond recollection presents them to. view ! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep, tangled wildwood. 

And every loved spot that my infancy knew. 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it ; 

The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell ; 
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it, 

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 

The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered bucket I hail as a treasure ; 

For often at noon, when returned from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, 

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; 



30 

Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, 
And dripping with coolness it rose from the well — 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, 

As poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 

Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
And now, far removed from thy loved situation, 

The tear of regret will oftentimes swell, 
As fancy returns to my father's plantation. 

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 

The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. 

— Samuel Woodworth. 



-«>o>0<oo- 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

Under a spreading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands ; 

The smith a mighty man is he. 
With large and sinewy hands ; 

And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 



31 

His hair is crisp and black and long ; 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night. 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell. 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge. 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church. 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach ; 

He hears his daughter's voice 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 



32 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, 

Onward through life he goes ; 
Each morning sees some task begun, 

Each evening sees its close ; 
Something attempted, something done, 

Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought ; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 

— Henry W, LongfdloiD. 



So nigh is grandeur to our dust 

So near is God to man. 
When Duty whispers low, " Thou must," 

The youth replies, " I can.'' 

— Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



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ThsTlllaKB Blukamitb, 



34 



THE CHOICE OF HERCULES. 

One morning when Hercules was a fair-faced lad 
of twelve years, he was sent out to do an errand 
which he disliked very much. As he walked slowly 
along the road, his heart was full of bitter thoughts ; 
and he murmured because others no better than him- ^ 
self were living in ease and pleasure, while for him 
there was little but labor and pain. Thinking upon 
these things, he came after a while to a place where 
two roads met; and he stopped, not quite certain 
which one to take. lo 

The road on his right was hilly and rough, and 
there was no beauty in it or about it; but he saw 
that it led straight toward the blue mountains in 
the far distance. The road on his left was broad 
and smooth, with shade trees on either side, where is 
sang thousands of beautiful birds ; and it went wind- 
ing in and out, through groves and green meadows, 
where bloomed countless flowers ; but it ended in fog 
and mist long before reaching the wonderful moun- 
tains of blue. 20 

While the lad stood in doubt as to which way he 
should go, he saw two ladies coming toward him, 
each by a different road. The one who came down 
the flowery way reached him first, and Hercules saw 
that she was beautiful as a summer day. Her cheeks 25 



35 

were red, her eyes sparkled, her voice was like the 
music of morning. 

" noble youth,'* she said, " this is the road which 
you should choose. It will lead you into pleasant 

5 ways where there is neither toil, nor hard study, nor 
drudgery of any kind. Your ears shall always be 
delighted with sweet sounds, and your eyes with 
things beautiful and gay ; and you need do nothing 
but play and enjoy the hours as they pass." 

10 By this time the other fair woman had drawn 
near, and she now spoke to the lad. 

"If you take my road," said she, "you will find 
that it is rocky and rough, and that it climbs many 
a hill and descends into many a valley and quag- 

16 mire. The views which you will sometimes get 
from the hilltops are grand and glorious, while the 
deep valleys are dark and the uphill ways are toil- 
some ; but the road leads to the blue mountains of 
endless fame, of which you can see faint glimpses, 

20 far away. They can not be reached without labor ; 
for, in fact, there is nothing worth having that must 
not be won through toil. If you would have fruits 
and flowers, you must plant and care for them ; if 
you would gain the love of your fellow-men, you 

25 must love them and suffer for them ; if you would be 
a man, you must make yourself strong by the doing 
of manly deeds." 



Then the boy saw that this lady, although her face 
seemed at first very plain, was as beautifxil as the 
dawn, or as the flowery fields after a summer rain. 

" What is your name ? " he asked. 




" If Ton would ba a man, run most make joDiaelf Btiinig," 

"Some call me Labor," she answered, "but others 
know me as Truth." 

"And what is your name?" he asked, turning to 
the first lady. 

" Some call me Pleasure," said she with a smile ; 
"but I choose to be known as the Joyous One." 

" And what can you promise me at the end if I go 
with you ? " 



37 

" I promise nothing at the end. What I give, I 
give at the beginning." 

"Labor," said Hercules, "I will follow your road. 
I want to be strong and manly and worthy of the 
5 love of my fellows. And whether I shall ever reach 
the blue mountains or not, I want to have the reward 
of knowing that my journey has not been without 
some worthy aim." 



'OOgQ^<x^ 



CHRISTMAS AT THE CRATCHITS'. 

Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, dressed out but poorly 
10 in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which 
are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence ; 
and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, 
second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; 
while Master Cratchit plunged a fork into the sauce- 
15 pan of potatoes, and getting the corner of his mon- 
strous shirt collar (Bob's private property, conferred 
upon his son and heir in honor of the day) into his 
mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, 
and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable 
20 Parks. 

And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, 
came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's 
they had smelt the goose, and known it for their 



38 

own ; and basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and 
onion, these young Cratchits danced about the table 
and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while 
he (not proud, although his collar nearly choked 
him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes bubbling i. 
up knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out 
and peeled. 

" What has ever got your precious father then ? " 
said Mrs. Cratchit. " And your brother. Tiny Tim ! 
And Martha wasn't as late last Christmas Day, by ic 
half an hour ! " 

" Here's Martha, mother ! " said a girl, appearing 
as she spoke. 

"Here's Martha, mother!'^ cried the two young 
Cratchits. " Hurrah ! There's such a goose, i5 
Martha ! " 

" Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late 
you are ! '* said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen 
times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her 
with officious zeal. 2C 

'^We'd a deal of work to finish up last night," 
replied the girl, " and had to clear away this morn- 
ing, mother ! " 

" Well ! never mind so long as you are come," 
said Mrs. Cratchit. "Sit ye down before the fire,2« 
my dear, and have a warm. Lord bless ye ! " 

" No, no ! There's father coming," cried the two 




Sob Ontohlt and T1d7 lim. 



40 

young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. 
" Hide, Martha, hide ! " 

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the 
father, with at least three feet of comforter exclusive 
of the fringe hanging down before him; and his 5 
threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to look 
seasonable ; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas 
for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his 
limbs supported by an iron frame ! 

" Why, where's our Martha ? " cried Bob Cratchit, 10 
looking round. 

"Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit. 

"Not coming!" said Bob, with a sudden declen- 
sion in his high spirits ; for he had been Tim's blood 
horse all the way from church, and had Come home 15 
rampant. ".Not coming upon Christmas Day ! ■ ' 

Martha did not like to see him disappointed, if it 
were only in joke; so she came out prematurely 
from behind the closet door, and ran, into his arms, 
while the two young Cratcliits hustled Tiny Tim, 20 
and bore him off into the wa^shhouse that' he might 
hear the pudding singing in the Qbpper. 

"And how did little Tim , behave ?;" asked Mrs. 
Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, 
and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's 25 
content. 

" As good as gold," said Bob, " and better. Some- 



41 

how he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, 
and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He 
told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw 
him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it 

5 might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christ- 
mas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind 
men see." 

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, 
and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was 

10 growing strong and hearty. 

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, 
and back came Tiny Tim before another word was 
spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his 
stool beside the fire ; and while Bob, turning up 

15 his cuffs, — as if, poor fellow, they were capable of 
being made more shabby, — compounded some hot 
mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it 
round and round and put it on the hob to simmer ; 
Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits 

20 went to fetch the goose, with which they soon re- 
turned in high procession. 

Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought 
a goose the rarest of all birds ; a feathered phenome- 
non, to which a black swan was a matter of course 

25 — and in truth it was something very like it in that 
house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready before- 
hand in a little saucepan) hissing hot ; Master Peter 



42 

mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss 
Belinda sweetened up the apple sauce; Martha 
dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside 
him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young 
Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting 5 
themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts, 
crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should 
shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. 
At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. 
It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. 10 
Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving knife, 
prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she 
did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing 
issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round 
the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two 15 
young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle 
of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah ! 

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't 
believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its 
tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the 20 
themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple 
sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner 
for the whole family ; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said 
with great delight (surveying one small atom of a 
bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last ! 25 
Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest 
Cratchits, in particular, were steeped in sage and 



43 

onion to the eyebrows! But now the plates bemg 
changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room 
alone — too nervous to bear witnesses — to take the 
puddmg up and bring it in. 

5 Suppose it should not be done enough ! Suppose 
it should break in turning out ! Suppose somebody 
should have got over the w^all of the backyard and 
stolen it, while they were merry with the goose — a 
supposition at which the two young Cratchits became 

10 livid. All sorts of horrors were supposed. 

Hallo ! A great deal of steam ! The pudding was 
out of the copper. A smell like a washing day! 
That was the cloth. A smell like an eating house 
and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a 

15 laundress's next door to that ! That was the pud- 
ding ! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered — 
flushed, but smiling proudly — with the pudding like 
a speckled cannon ball, so hard and firm, smoking 
hot, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into 

20 the top. 

Oh, a wonderful pudding ! Bob Cratchit said, and 
calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success 
achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. 
Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, 

26 she would confess she had her doubts about the quan- 
tity of flour. Everybody had something to say about 
it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small 



44 

pudding for a large family. It would have been flat 
heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed 
to hint at such a thing. 

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was 
cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. 5 
The compound in the jug being tasted, and consid- 
ered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the 
table, and a shovel full of chestnuts on the fire. 
Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, 
in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meanmg half a 10 
one ; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family 
display of glass, — two tumblers and a custard cup 
without a handle. 

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as 
well as golden goblets would have done ; and Bob 15 
served it out with beaming looks, while the chest- 
nuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then 
Bob proposed: "A Merry Christmas to us all, my 
dears. God bless us ! " 

Which all the family reechoed. 20 

" God bless us every one ! " said Tiny Tim, the 
last of all. 

He sat very close to his father's side, upon his little 
stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, as 
if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his 25 
side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him. 
— From "w4 Christmas Carol '' by Charles Dickens, 



45 



ON THE MOUNTAIN. 

And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a moun- 
tain : and when he was set, his disciples came unto 
him ; and he opened his mouth and taught them, 
saying : Blessed are the poor in spirit ; for theirs is 

5 the kingdom of heaven. - Blessed are they that 
mourn; for they shall be comforted. Blessed are 
the meek; for they shall inherit the earth. 

Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after 
righteousness; for they shall be filled. Blessed are 

10 the merciful ; for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed 
are the pure in heart ; for they shall see God. 

Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall be 
called the children of God. Blessed are they which 
are persecuted for righteousness' sake; for theirs is 

15 the kingdom of heaven. 

Blessed are ye when men shall revile you, and 
persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil 
against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice and 
be exceeding glad ; for great is your reward in 

20 heaven. 

Ye have heard that it hath been said by them of 
old time. Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt 
perform unto the Lord thine oaths : but I say unto 
you. Swear not at all ; neither by heaven ; for it is 

25 God's throne : nor by the earth ; for it is his foot- 



46 

stool : neither by Jerusalem ; for it is the city of the 
great King. 

Neither shalt thou swear by thy head, because thou 
canst not make one hair white or black. But let 
your communication be, Yea, yea ; Nay, nay : for 5 
whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil. 

Ye have heard that it hath been said. An eye for 
an eye, and a tooth for a tooth : but I say unto you, 
That ye resist not evil ; but whosoever shall smite 
thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. 10 

And if any man will sue thee at law, and take 
away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also. And 
whosoever shall compel thee to go a mUe, go with 
him twain. Give to him that asketh thee, and from 
him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away, is 

Ye have heard that it hath been said. Thou shalt 
love thy neighbor and hate thine enemy. But I say 
unto you. Love your enemies, bless them that curse 
you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for 
them which despitef ully use you, and persecute you ; 20 
that ye may be the children of your Father which is 
in heaven : for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil 
and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on 
the unjust. 

For if ye love them that love you, what reward 25 
have ye ? Do not even the publicans the same ? And 
if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more 



47 

than others ? Do not even the publicans so ? Be ye, 
therefore, perfect, even as your Father which is in 
heaven is perfect. ... 

Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye 

5 shall find ; knock, and it shall be opened unto you ; 
for every one that asketh, receiveth; and he that 
seeketh, findeth ; and to him that knocketh, it shall 
be opened. Or what man is there of you, whom if 
his son ask bread, will he give him a stone ? Or if 

10 he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent ? 

If ye then, being evil know how to give good gifts 
unto your children, how much more shall your Father 
which is in heaven give good things to them that 
ask him ? Therefore all things whatsoever ye would 

15 that men should do to you, do ye even so to them. 

Whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and 

doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which 

built his house upon a rock : and the rain descended, 

and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat 

20 upon that house ; and it fell not ; for it was founded 
upon a rock. And every one that heareth these say- 
ings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened 
unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the 
sand : and the rain descended, and the floods came, 

25 and the winds blew, and beat upon that house ; and 
it fell : and great was the fall of it. 

— From the Gospel according to St, Matthew. 



48 



BETSEY HULL'S WEDDING. 

In the early days of New England all the money 
that was used was brought from Europe. Coins of 
gold and silver from England were the most plenti- 
ful ; but now and then one might see a doubloon, or 
some piece of smaller value, that had been made in s 
Spain or Portugal. As for paper money, or bank 
bills, nobody had ever heard of them. 

Money was so scarce that people were often obliged 
to barter instead of buying and selling. That is, if 
a lady wanted a yard of dress goods, she would per- lo 
haps exchange a basket of fruit or some vegetables 
for it ; if a farmer wanted a pair of shoes, he might 
give the skin of an ox for it ; if he needed nails, he 
might buy them with potatoes. In many places 
there was not money enough of any kind to pay the 15 
salaries of the ministers ; and so, instead of gold or 
silver, they were obliged to take fish and corn and 
wood and anything else that the people could spare. 

As the people became more numerous, and there 
was more trade among them, the want of money 20 
caused much inconvenience. At last, the General 
Court of the colony passed a law providing for the 
coinage of small pieces of silver — shillings, six- 
pences, and threepences. They also appointed Cap- 
tain John Hull to be mint-master for the colony, and 25 



49 

gave him the exclusive right to make this money. 
It was agreed that for every twenty shillings coined 
by him, he was to keep one shilling to pay him for 
his work. 

5 And now, all the old silver in the colony was 
hunted up and carried to Captain Hull's miut. Bat- 
tered silver cans and tankards, silver huckles, broken 
spoons, old sword hilts, and many other such curious 
old articles were doubtless thrown into the melting 

10 pot together. But by far the greater part of the 
silver consisted of bullion from the mines of South 
America, which the 
English buccaneers 
had taken from the 

15 Spaniards and brought 
to Massachusetts. All 
this old and new sil- 
ver was melted down Pine-tree suniag. 
and coined ; and the result was an immense amount 

so of bright shillings, sixpences, and threepences. Each 
had the date, 1652, on one side, and the figure of a 
pine tree on the other; hence, the shillings were 
called pine-tree shillings. 

When the members of the General Court saw what 

26 an immense number of coins had been made, and re- 
membered that one shilling in every twenty was to 
go into the pockets of Captain John Hull, they began 




50 

to think that the mint-master was having the best of 
the bargain. They offered him a large amount, if he 
would but give up his claim to that twentieth shilling. 
But the Captain declared that he was well satisfied 
to let things stand as they were. And so he might 5 
be, for iijL a few years his money bags and his strong 
box were all overflowing with pine-tree shillings. 

Now, the rich mint-master had a daughter whose 
name I do not know, but whom I will call Betsey. 
This daughter was a fine, hearty damsel, by no 10 
means so slender as many young ladies of our own 
days. She had been fed on pumpkin pies, doughnuts, 
Indian puddings, and other Puritan dainties, and so 
had grown up to be as round and plump as any lass 
in the colony. With this round, rosy Miss Betsey, a 15 
worthy young man, Samuel Sewell by name, fell 
in love ; and as he was diligent in business, and a 
member of the church, the mint-master did not 
object to his taking her as his wife. "Oh, yes, 
you may have her," he said in his rough way ; " but 20 
you will find her a heavy enough burden." 

On the wedding day we may suppose that honest 
John Hull dressed himself in a plum-colored coat, 
all the buttons of which we're made of pine-tree 
shillings. The buttons of his waistcoat were six- 25 
pences, and the knees of his small clothes were 
buttoned with silver threepences. Thus attired, he 



51 

sat with dignity in the huge armchair which had 

been brought from old England expressly for his 

comfort. On the other side of the room sat Miss 

Betsey. She was blushing with all her might, and 

•5 looked like a full-blown peony or a great red apple. 

There, too, was the bridegroom, dressed in a fine 

purple coat and gold-laced waistcoat. His hair was 

cropped close to his head, because Governor Endicott 

had forbidden any man to wear it below the ears. 

10 But he was a very personable young man ; and so 

thought the bridesmaids and Miss Betsey herself. 

When the marriage ceremony was over, Captain 
Hull whispered a word to two of his men servants, 
who immediately went out, and soon returned lug- 
is ging in a large pair of scales. They were such a 
pair as wholesale merchants use for weighing bulky 
commodities ; and quite a bulky commodity was now 
to be weighed in them. 

"Daughter Betsey," said the mint-master, "get 
20 into one side of these scales." Miss Betsey — or 
Mrs. Sewell, as we must now call her — did as she 
was bid, like a dutiful child, without any question 
of why and wherefore. But what her father could 
mean, unless to make her husband pay for her by 
26 the pound (in which case she would have been a 
dear bargain), she had not the least idea. 

"Now," said honest John Hull to the servants, 




><.' 



62 



" bring that box hither." The box to which, the 
mint-master pointed was a huge, square, ironbotind, 
oaken chest; it was big enough, my childrien, for 
three or four of you to play at hide and seek in. 
The servants tugged with might and main, but 5 
could not lift this enormous receptacle, and were 
finally obliged to drag it across the floor. Captain 
Hull then took a key from his girdle, unlocked the 
chest, and lifted its ponderous lid. 

Behold ! it was full to the brim of bright . pine- 10 
tree shillings fresh from the mint; and Samuel 
Sewell began to think that his father-in-law had 
got possession of all the money in the Massachusetts 
treasury. But it was only the mint-master's honest 
share of the coinage. 15 

Then the servants, at Captain Hull's command, 
heaped double handfuls of shillings into one side of 
the scales, while Betsey remained in the other. 
Jingle, jingle went the shillings, as handful after 
handful was thrown in, till, plump and ponderous 20 
as she was, they fairly weighed the young lady from 
the floor. 

" There, son Sewell ! " cried the honest mint-mas- 
ter, " take these shillings for my daughter's portion. 
It is not every wife that is worth her weight in 25 
silver." 
— Adapted from " Grandfather's Chair ^' by Nathaniel Hawthorne. 



ULYSSES AND THE CYCLOPS. 
Among all the great poems that have ever been 
written none are grander or more famous than the 
"Iliad" and the "Odyssey," of the old Greek poet 
Homer. They were composed and re- 
;;ited nearly three thousand years 5 
ago, and yet nothing that has 
been written in later times 
has so charmed and delighted 
mankind. In the " Iliad " the 
poet tells how the Greeks 10 
made war upon Troy, and 
' how they did brave deeds 
;iround the walla of that famed 
_'ity, and faltered not till they 
• liad won the stubborn fight. ■ In the 15 
' he tells how the Greek hero 
Ulysses or Odysseus, when the war was ended, set 
sail for his distant home in Ithaca ; how he was 
driven from his course by the wind and waves ; and 
how lie was carried against his will through unknown -jo 
seas and to strange, mysterious shores where no man 
had been before. 

One of the most famous passages in the " Odyssey " 
is that in which Ulysses relates the story of his meet- 
ing with the one-eyed giant, Polyphemus. He tells 3.1 
it in this manner : 




55 

When we had come to the land, we saw a cave 
not far from the sea. It was a lofty cave roofed 
over with laurels, and in it large herds of sheep 
and goats were used to rest. About it a high outer 

5 court was built with stones set deep in the ground, 
and with tall pines and oaks crowned with green 
leaves. In it was wont to sleep a man of monstrous 
size who shepherded his flocks alone and had no deal^ 
ings with others, but dwelt apart in lawlessness of 

10 mind. Indeed, he was a monstrous thing, most 
strangely shaped ; and he was unlike any man that 
lives by bread, but more like the wooded top of some 
towering hill that stands out apart and alone from 
others. 

15 Then I bade the rest of my well-loved company 
stay close by the ship and guard it ; but I chose out 
twelve of my bravest men and sallied forth. We 
bore with us a bag of corn and a great skin filled 
with dark sweet wine ; for in my lordly heart I had 

20 a foreboding that we should meet a man, a strange, 
strong man who had little reason and cared nothing 
for the right. 

Soon we came to the cave, but he was not within ; 
he was shepherding his fat flocks in the pastures. 

25 So we went into the cave and looked around. There 
we saw many folds filled with lambs and kids. Each 
kind was penned by itself; in one fold were the 



spring lambs, in one were the summer lambs, and in 
one were the younglings of the flock. On one side of 
the cave were baskets well laden with cheeses ; and 
the milk pails and the bowls and the well-wrought 
vessels into which he milked were filled with whey. [ 




lame back ditving Mb floolu. 



Then my men begged me to take the cheeses and 
return, and afterwards to make haste and drive off 
the kids and lambs to the swift ship and sail with- 
out delay over the salt waves. Far better would it 
have been had I done as they wished; but I bade- 
them wait and see the giant himself, for perhaps he 



67 

would give me gifts as a stranger's due. Then we 
kindled a fire and made a burnt-offering ; and we ate 
some of the cheeses, and sat waiting for him till he 
came back driving his flocks. In his arms he carried 

5 a huge load of dry wood to be used in cooking sup- 
per. This he threw down with a great noise inside 
the cave, and we in fear hid ourselves in the dark 
comers behind the rocks. 

As for the giant, he drove into the wide cavern all 

10 those of his flock that he was wont to milk ; but the 
males, both of the sheep and of the goats, he left 
outside in the high-walled yard. Then he lifted a 
huge door stone and set it in the mouth of the 
cave ; it was a stone so weighty that two-and-twenty 

15 good, four-wheeled wagons could scarce have borne 
it off the groimd. Then he sat down and milked 
the ewes and the bleating goats, each in its turn, 
and beneath each ewe he placed her young. After 
that he curdled half of the white milk and stored it 

20 in wicker baskets ; and the other half he let stand 
in pails that he might have it for his supper. 

Now, when he had done all his work busily, he 
kindled the fire, and as its light shone into all parts 
of the cave, he saw us. " Strangers, who are you ? " 

25 he cried. "Whence sail you over the wet ways? 
Are you on some trading voyage, or do you rove as 
sea robbers over the briny deep ? " 



58 

Such were his words, and so monstrous was he 
and so deep was his voice that our hearts were 
broken within us for terror. But, for all that, I 
stood up and answered him, saying: 

" Lo, we are Greeks, driven by all manner of winds 5 
over the great gulf of the sea. We seek our homes, 
but have lost our way and know not where we go. 
Now we have landed on this shore, and we come to 
thy knees, thinking perhaps that thou wilt give us a 
stranger's gift, or make any present, as is the due of lo 
strangers. Think upon thy duty to the gods ; for 
we are thy suppliants. Have regard to Jupiter, the 
god of the sojoiKuer and the friend of the stranger.'' 

This I said, and then the giant answered me out 
of his pitiless heart : " Thou art indeed a foolish i5 
fellow and a stranger in this land, to think of bid- 
ding me fear the gods. We Cyclops care nothing 
for Jupiter, nor for any other of the gods ; for we 
are better men than they. The fear of them will 
never cause me to spare either thee or thy company, 20 
unless I choose to do so." 

Then the giant sprang up and caught two of my 
companions, and dashed them to the ground so hard 
that they died before my eyes; and the earth was 
wet with their blood. Then he cut them into pieces, 25 
and made ready his evening meal. So he ate, as a 
lion of the mountains ; and we wept and raised our 



59 

hands to Jupiter, and knew not what to do. And 
after the Cyclops had filled himself, he lay down 
among his sheep. 

Then I considered in my great heart whether I 

5 should not draw my sharp sword, and stab him in 
the breast. But upon second thought, T held back. 
For I knew that we would not be able to roll away 
with our hands the heavy stone which the giant liad 
set against the door, and we would then have per- 

10 ished in the cave. So, all night long, we crouched 
trembling in the darkness, and waited the coming 
of the day. 

Now, when the rosy-fingered Dawn shone forth, 
the Cyclops arose and kindled the fire. Then he 

15 milked his goodly flock, and beneath each ewe he set 
her lamb. When he had done all his work busily, 
he seized two others of my men, and made ready his 
morning meal. And after the meal, he moved away 
the great door stone, and drove his fat flocks forth 

20 from the cave ; and when the last sheep had gone 
out, he set the stone in its place again, as one might 
set the lid of a quiver. Then, with a loud whoop, 
he turned his flocks toward the hills ; but I was left 
shut up in the cave, and thinking what we should 

25 do to avenge ourselves. 

And at last this plan seemed to me the best. Not 
far from the sheepfold there lay a great club of the 



60 

Cyclops, a club of olive wood, yet green, which he 
had cut to carry with him when it should be fully 
seasoned. Now when we looked at this stick, it 
seemed to us as large as the mast of a black ship 
of twenty oars, a wide merchant vessel that sails the 
vast sea. I stood by it, and cut off from it a piece 
some six feet in length, and set it by my men, and 
bade them trim it down and make it smooth ; and 
while they did this, I stood by and sharpened it to 
a point. Then I took it and hardened it in the ra 
bright fire ; and after that, I laid it away and hid it. 
And I bade my men cast lots to determine which of 
them should help me, when the time came, to lift 
the sharp and heavy stick and turn it about in the 
Cyclops' eye. And the lots fell upon those whom 1 1^ 
would have chosen, and I appointed myself to be the 
fifth among them. 

II. 

In the evening the Cyclops came home, bringing 
his well-fleeced flocks ; and soon he drove the beasts, 
each and all, into the cave, and left not one outside 20 
in the high-walled yard. Then he lifted the huge 
door stone, and set it in the mouth of the cave ; and 
after that he milked the ewes and the bleating goats, 
all in order, and beneath each ewe he placed her 
young. 25 



61 

Now when he had done all his work busily, he 
seized two others of my men, and made ready his 
supper. Then I stood before the Cyclops and spoke 
to him, holding in my hands a bowl of dark wine : 
" Cyclops, take this wine and drink it after thy feast, 
that thou mayest know what kind of wine it was 
that our good ship carried. For, indeed, I was 
bringing it to thee as a drink offering, if haply thou 
wouldst pity us and send us on our way home ; but 
10 thy mad rage seems to have no bounds." 

So I spoke, and he took the cup and drank the 
wine ; and so great was his delight that he asked me 
for yet a second draught. 

" Kindly give me more, and- tell me thy name, 
15 so that I may give thee a stranger's gift and make 
thee glad." 

Thus he spoke, and again I handed him the dark 

wine. Three times did I hand it to him, and three 

times did he drink it to the dregs. But when the 

20 wine began to confuse his wits, then I spoke to him 

with soft words : 

"O Cyclops, thou didst ask for my renowned 

name, and now I will tell it to thee ; but do thou 

grant me a stranger's gift, as thou hast promised. 

25 My name is No-man ; my father and my mother 

and all my companions call me No-man." 

Thus I spoke, and he answered me out of his 



62 

pitiless heart: "I will eat thee, No-man, after I 
have eaten all thy fellows : that shall be thy gift." 

Then he sank down upon the ground with his 
face upturned; and there he lay with his great 
neck bent round ; and sleep, that conquers all men, 
overcame him. Then I thrust that stake under 
the burning coals until the sharpened end of it 
grew hot ; and I spoke words of comfort to my men 
lest they should hang back with fear. But when 
the bar of olive wood began to glow and was about ^ 
to catch fire, even then I came nigh and drew it 
from the coals, and my men stood around me, and 
some god filled our hearts with courage. 

The men seized the bar of olive wood and thrust 
it into the Cyclops' eye, while I from my place :■ 
aloft turned it around. As when a man bores a 
ship's beam with a drill while his fellows below 
spin it with a strap, which they hold at either end, 
and the auger runs round continually : even so did 
we seize the fiery-pointed brand and whirl it round ^ 
in his eye. And the flames singed his eyelids and 
brows all about, as the ball of the eye was burned 
away. And the Cyclops raised a great and terrible 
cry that made the rocks around us ring, and we 
fled away in fear, while he plucked the brand from 25 
his bleeding eye. 

Then, maddened with pain, he cast the bar from 



63 

him, and called with a loud voice to the Cyclopes, 
his neighbors, who dwelt near him in the caves 
along the cliffs. And they heard his cry, and 
flocked together from every side, and standing out- 
• side, at the door of the cave, asked him what was 
the matter: 

^^What troubles thee, Polyphemus, that thou 
criest thus in the night, and wilt not let us sleep ? " 

The strong Cyclops whom they thus called Poly- 

10 phemus, answered them from the cave : " My friends. 

No-man is killing me by guile, and not by force!" 

And they spoke winged words to him : " If no 
man is mistreating thee in thy lonely cave, then 
it must be some sickness, sent by Jupiter, that is 
15 giving thee pain. Pray to thy father, great Nep- 
tune, and perhaps he will cure thee.'' 

And when they had said this they went away; 
and my heart within me laughed to see how my 
name and cunning counsel had deceived them. But 
20 the Cyclops, groaning with pain, groped with his 
hands, and lifted the stone from the door of the 
cave. Then he sat in the doorway, with arms out- 
stretched, to lay hold of any one that might try 
to go out with the sheep; for he thought that I 
25 would be thus foolish. But I began to think of 
all kinds of plans by which we might escape ; and 
this was the plan which seemed to me the best : 



64 



The rams of the flock were thick-fleeced, beauti- 
ful, and large ; and their wool was dark as the 
violet. These I quietly lashed together with the 
strong withes which the Cyclops had laid in heaps 
to sleep upon. I tied them together in threes : the 
middle one of the three was to carry a man; but 
the sheep on either side went only as a shield to 
keep him from discovery. Thus, every three sheep 
carried their man. As for me, I laid hold of a 
young ram, the best and strongest of all the flock ; ^■-' 
and I clung beneath him, face upward, grasping the 
wondrous fleece. 

As soon as the early Dawn shone forth, the rams 
of the flock hastened out to the pasture, but the 
ewes bleated about the pens and waited to be ^•^ 
milked. As the rams passed through the doorway, 
their master, sore stricken with pain, felt along 
their backs, and guessed not in his folly that my 
men were bound beneath their wooly breasts. Last 
of all, came the young ram cumbered with his heavy 20 
fleece, and the weight of me and my cunning. The 
strong Cyclops laid his hands on him and spoke to 
him : 

" Dear ram," he said, " pray tell me why you 
are the last of all to go forth from the cave. You 25 
are not wont to lag behind. Hitherto you have 
always been the first to pluck the tender blossoms 



65 

le pasture, and you have been the first to go 
to the fold at evening. But now you are the 
last. Can it be that you are sorrowing for 
master's eye which a wicked man blinded when 
ad overcome me with wine ? 
\h, if you could feel as I — if you could speak 
tell me where he is hiding to shun my wrath 
len I ivould smite him, and my heart would be 
ened of the sorrows that he has brought upon 



len he sent the ram from him ; and when we 
gone a little way from the cave I loosed myself 
under the ram, and then set my fellows free, 
tly we drove the flock before us, and often 
id to look about, till at 
we came to the ship, 
ir companions greeted 
■ith glad hearts, — us 
had fled from death ; 
they were about to be- 
1 the others with tears 
1 I forbade. I told 
1 to make haste and take on board the well-fleeced 
3, and then sail away from that imfriendly shore. 
hey did as they were bidden, and when all was 
Y, they sat upon the benches, each man in his 
!, and smote the gray sea water with their oars. 




in ths Time of Homat. 



>> - 



66 

But when we had not gone so far but that a man'^ 
shout could be heard, I called to the Cyclops and_ 
taunted him : 

" Cyclops, you will not eat us by main might in— 
your hollow cave ! Your evil deeds, cruel monster, ^ 
were sure to find you out ; for you shamelessly ate th 
guests that were within your gates, and now Jupite 
and the other gods have requited you as you deserved. 

Thus I spoke, and so great became his anger thati: 
he broke off the peak of a great hill and threw it at: 
us, and it fell in front of the dark-prowed ship. AndB. 
the sea rose in waves from the fall of the rock, anA^ 
drove the ship quickly back to the shore. Then EI 
caught up a long pole in my hands, and thrust th^ 
ship from off the land; and with a motion of th^ 
head, I bade them dash in with their oars, so that 
we might escape from our evil plight. So they bent 
to their oars and rowed on. 

Such is the story which Ulysses told of his adven- 
ture with the giant Cyclops. Many and strange iK) 
were the other adventures through which he passed 
before he reached his distant home ; and all are re- 
lated in that wonderful poem, the " Odyssey." This 
poem has been often translated into the English lan- 
guage. Some of the translations are in the form of 25 
poetry, and of these the best are the versions by 



George Chapman, by Alexander Pope, and by our 
American poet William Cullen Bryant. The best 
prose translation is that by Butcher and Lang — and 
this I have followed quite closely in the story which 
you have just read. 



THE BROOK. 

I come from haunts of coot and hern : 

I make a sudden sally, 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down the valley ; 

By thirty hills I hurry down. 
Or slip between the ridgo.-; 
By twenty thorps, a little town. 
And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 

To join the brimming river ; 
For men may come and men 
may go, 

But I go on forever. 

I chatter over stony ways 
In little sharps and trebles; 

I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles ; 




68 



With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow ; 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come, and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I wind about, and in and out, 
With here a blossom sailing. 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake. 

Upon me as I travel. 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come, and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 
I slide by hazel covers ; 



I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
That grow for happy lovers ; 




I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows ; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows ; 

I mnrmur under moon and stars 
In brambly wildernesses ; 

I linger by my shingly bars, 
I loiter round my cresses ; 



TO 



And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river ; 
For men may come, and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

— Alfred Tennyson. 
^;*;o« 

THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 

PART I. 

On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky : 
And through the fields the road runs by 

To many-towered Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below, 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver. 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Through the wave that runs forever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot ; 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers. 
Overlook a space of flowers. 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 



71 



By the margin, willow-veiled^ 
Slide the heavy barges, trailed 
By slow horses ; and unbailed 
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed. 

Skimming down to Camelot : 
But who hath seen her wave her hand ? 
Or at the casement seen her stand ? 
Or is she known in all the land, 

The Lady of Shalott ? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley. 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to towered Camelot : 
And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy. 
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy 

Lady of Shalott." 

PART II. 

There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be. 
And so she weaveth steadily. 



72 



And little other care hath she, 
The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving through a mirror clear, 
That hangs before her all the year. 
Shadows of the world appear. 
Thdre she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot : 
There the river eddy whirls, 
And there the surly village churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad. 
An abbot on an ambling pad. 
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad 
Or long-haired page in crimson clad, 

Goes by to towered Camelot ; 
And sometimes through the mirror blue. 
The knights come riding two and two : — 
She hath no loyal knight and true. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirrored magic sights. 
For often through the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights. 
And music, went to Camelot ; 



73 

Or, when the moon was overhead, 
Came two young lovers lately wed. 
" I am half-sick of shadows," said 
The Lady of Shalott. 

PART III. 

A bowshot from her bower eaves, 
He rode between the barley sheaves, 
The sun came dazzling through the leaves. 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A red-cross knight forever kneeled 
To a lady in his shield 
That sparkled on the yellow field. 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glittered free. 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot : 
And from his blazoned baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armor rung. 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle leather, 



74 



The helmet and the helmet feather 
Burned like one burning flame together, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
As often through the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright, 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed ; 
On burnished hooves his war horse trode ; 
From underneath his helmet flowed 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flashed into the crystal mirror ; 
" Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom, 
She made three paces through the room, 
She saw the water lily bloom. 
She saw the helmet and the plume, 

She looked down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
The mirror cracked from side to side ; 
" The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 



75 



PART IV. 



In the stormy east wind straining, 
The pale yellow woods were waning, 
The broad stream in his banks complaining, 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over towered Camelot; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat, 
And round about the prow she wrote, 

The Lady of Shalott, 

And down the river's dim expanse — 
Like some bold seer in a trance. 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; 
The broad stream bore her far away. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Through the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot : 
And as the boat-head wound along 



76 



The willowy hills and fields among, 
They heard her singing her last song, 
The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy. 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly. 
Till her blood was frozen slowly. 
And her eyes were darkened wholly, 

Turned to towered Camelot ; • 
For ere she reached upon the tide 
The first house by the waterside. 
Singing in her song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony. 
By garden wall and gallery, 
A gleaming shape she floated by, 
A corse between the houses high. 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came. 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame. 
And round the prow they read her name, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this ? and what is here ? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer ; 



77 

And they crossed themselves for fear, 
All the knights at Camelot ; 

But Lancelot mused a little space ; 

He said, " She has a lovely face ; 

God in his mercy lend her grace, 
The Lady of Shalott." 

This poem, by Alfred Tennyson, was written in 1832. Considered 
as a picture, or as a series of pictures, its beauty is unsurpassed. The 
story which is here so briefly told is founded upon a touching legend 
connected with the romance of King Arthur and his Knights of the 
Round Table. Tennyson afterwards (in 1859) expanded it into the 
Idyll called " Elaine," wherein he followed more closely the original 
aarrative as related by Sir Thomas Malory. 

Sir Lancelot was the strongest and bravest of the Knights of the 
Round Table, and for love of him Elaine, "the fair maid of Astolat," 
pined away and died. But before her death she called her brother, 
ind having dictated a letter which he was to write, she spoke thus: 

"* While my body is whole, let this letter be put into my right 
hand, and my hand bound fast with the letter until I be cold, and let 
me be put in a fair bed with all my richest clothes that I have about 
me, and so let my bed and all my rich clothes be laid with me in a 
chariot to the next place whereas the Thames is, and there let me be 
put in a barge, and but one man with me, such as ye trust to steer 
me thither, and that my barge be covered with black samite over and 
over.* ... So when she was dead, the corpse and the bed and all 
was led the next way unto the Thames, and there all were put in a 
barge on the Thames, and so the man steered the barge to West- 
minster, and there he rowed a great while to and fro, or any man 
espied." * At length the King and his Knights, coming down to the 
water side, and seeing the' boat and the fair maid of Astolat, they 
uplifted the hapless body of Elaine, and bore it to the hall. 

1 Malory's ♦' King Arthur," Book XVIII. 



79 



LESSONS FROM NATURE'S BOOK. 

Let us suppose that it is summer time, that you 
are in the country, and that you have fixed upon a 
certain day for a holiday ramble. Some of you are 
going to gather wild flowers, some to collect pebbles, 

5 and some without any very definite aim beyond the 
love of the holiday and of any sport or adventure 
which it may bring with it. 

Soon after sunrise on the eventful day you are 
awake, and great is your delight to find the sky 

10 clear, and the sun shining warmly. It is arranged, 
however, that you do not start until after breakfast 
time, and meanwhile you busy yourselves in getting 
ready all the baskets and sticks and other gear of 
which you are to make use during the day. But the 

16 brightness of the morning begins to get dimmed. 
The few clouds which were to be seen at first have 
grown large, and seem evidently gathering together 
for a storm. And sure enough, ere breakfast is well 
over, the first ominous big drops are seen falling. 

20 You cling to the hope that it is only a shower 
which will soon be over, and you go on with the 
preparations for the journey notwithstanding. But 
the rain shows no symptom of soon ceasing. The 
big drops come down thicker and faster. Little 

26 pools of water begin to form in the hollows of the 



80 

road, and the window panes are now streaming with 
rain. With sad hearts you have to give up all hope 
of holding your excursion to-day. 

It is no doubt very tantalizing to be disappointed 
in this way when the promised pleasure was on the 5 
very point of becoming yours. But let us see if we 
ca 1 not derive some compensation even from the bad 
weather. Late in the afternoon the sky clears a 
little, and the rain ceases. You are glad to get out- 
side again, and so we all sally forth for a walk. 10 
Streams of muddy water are still coursing along the 
sloping roadway. If you will let me be your guide, 
I would advise that we should take our walk by the 
neighboring river. We wend our way by wet paths 
and green lanes, where every hedgerow is still drip- 15 
ping with moisture, until we gain the bridge, and 
see the river right beneath us. What a change this 
one day's heavy rain has made ! Yesterday you 
could almost count the stones in the channel, so 
small and clear was the current. But look at it 20 
now ! 

The water fills the channel from bank to bank, 
and rolls along swiftly. We can watch it for a little 
from the bridge. As it rushes past, innumerable 
leaves and twigs are seen floating on its surface. 26 
Now and then a larger branch, or even a whole tree 
trunk, comes down, tossing and rolling about on the 



81 

flood. Sheaves of straw or hay, planks of wood, 
pieces of wooden fence, sometimes a poor duck, 
unable to struggle against the current, roll past us 
and show how the river has risen above its banks 

5 and done damage to the farms higher up its course. 

We linger for a while on the bridge, watching this 

unceasing tumultuous rush of water and the constant 

variety of objects which it carries down the channel. 

You think it was perhaps almost worth while to lose 

10 your holiday for the sake of seeing so grand a sight 
as this angry and swollen river, roaring and rushing 
with its full burden of dark water. Now, while the 
scene is still fresh before you, ask yourselves a few 
simple questions about it, and you will find perhaps 

15 additional reasons for not regretting the failure of 
the promised excursion. 

In the first place, where does all this added mass 
of water in the river come from ? You say it was 
the rain that brought it. Well, but how should it 

20 find its way into this broad channel ? Why does not 
the rain run ofE the. ground without making any river 
at all ? 

But, in the second place, where does the rain come 
from? In the early morning the sky was bright, 

25 then clouds appeared, and then came the rain, and 
you answer that it was the clouds which supplied the 
rain. But the clouds must have derived the water 

sen. HEAD. V. — 6 



82 

from some source. How is it that clouds gather 
rain, and let it descend upon the earth? 

In the third place, what is it which causes the 
river to rush on in one direction more than another ? 
When the water was low, and you could, perhaps, 5 
almost step across the channel on the stones and 
gravel, the current, small though it might be, was 
still quite perceptible. You saw that the water was 
moving along the channel always from the same 
quarter. And now when the channel is filled with 10 
this rolling torrent of dark water, you see that the 
direction of the current is still the same. Can you 
tell why this should be ? 

Again, yesterday the water was clear, to-day it is 
dark and discolored. Take a little of this dirty- 15 
looking water home with you, and let it stand all 
night in a glass. To-morrow morning you will find 
that it is clear, and that a fine layer of mud has sunk 
to the bottom. It is mud, therefore, which discolors 
the swollen river. But where did this mud come 20 
from ? Plainly, it must have something to do with 
the heavy rain and the flooded state of the stream. 

Well, this river, whether in shallow or in flood, is 
always moving onward in one direction, and the mud 
which it bears along is carried toward the same point 25 
to which the river itself is hastening. While we sit 
on the bridge watching the foaming water as it 



83 

eddies and whirls past us, the question comes home 
to us — what becomes of all this vast quantity of 
water and mud ? 

Remember, now, that our river is only one of many 

5 hundreds which flow across this country, and that 
there are thousands more in other countries where 
the same thing may be seen which we have been 
watching to-day. They are all flooded when heavy 
rains come ; they all flow downwards ; and all of 

10 them carry more or less mud along with them. 

As we walk homewards again, it will be well to 
put together some of the chief features of this day's 
experience. We have seen that sometimes the sky 
is clear and blue, with the sun shining brightly and 

15 warmly in it ; that sometimes clouds come across 
the sky, and that, when they gather thickly, rain is 
apt to fall. We have -seen that a river flows, that 
it is swollen by heavy rain, and that when swollen it 
is apt to be muddy. In this way we have learned 

20 that there is a close connection between the sky 
above us and the earth under our feet. In the 
morning, it seemed but a little thing that clouds 
should be seen gathering overhead ; and yet, ere even- 
ing fell, these clouds led by degrees to the flooding 

25 of the river, the sweeping down of trees and fences 
and farm produce; and it might even be to the 
destruction of bridges, the inundation of fields ?oci<i^ 



84 

villages and towns, and a large destr action- of human 
life and property. 

But perhaps you live in a large town and have no 
opportunity of seeing such country sights as I have 
been describing, and in that case you may naturally 5 
enough imagine that these things cannot have much 
interest for you. You may learn a great deal, how- 
ever, about rain and streams even in the streets of a 
town. Catch a little of the rain in a plate, and you 
will find it to be so much clear water. But look at it lo 
as it courses along the gutters. You see how muddy 
it is. It has swept away the loose dust worn by 
wheels and feet from the stones of the street, and 
carried it into the gutters. Each gutter thus be- 
comes like the flooded river. You can watch, too, i5 
how chips of straw, corks, bits of wood, and other 
loose objects lying in the street are borne away, very 
much as the trunks of trees are carried by the river. 
Even in a town, therefore, you can see how changes 
in the sky lead to changes on the earth. 20 

If you think for a little, you will recall many 
other illustrations of the way in which the common 
things of everyday life are connected together. As 
far back as you can remember, you have been famil- 
iar with such things as sunshine, clouds, wind, rain, 25 
rivers, frost, and snow, and they have grown so com- 
monplace that you never think of considering about 



8? 

them. You cannot imagine them, perhaps, as in any 
way different from what they are ; they seem, in- 
deed, so natural and so necessary that you may even 
be surprised when any one asks you to give a reason 

5 for them. 

But if you had lived all your lives in a country 
where no rain ever fell, and if you were to be 
brought to such a country as this, and w^ere to see 
such a storm of rain as you have been watching 

10 to-day, would it not be very strange to you, and 
would you not naturally enough begin to ask the 
meaning of it ? Or suppose that a boy from some 
very warm part of the world were to visit this 
country in winter, and see for the first time snow 

15 falling, and the rivers solidly frozen over, would you 
be surprised if he showed great astonishment? If 
he asked you to tell him what snow is, and why the 
ground is so hard, and the air so cold, .why the 
streams no longer flow, but have become crusted 

20 with ice — could you answer his questions? 

And yet these questions relate to very common, 
everyday things. If you think about them, you will 
learn, perhaps, that the answers are not quite so 
easily found as you had imagined. Do not suppose 

25 that because a thing is common, it can have no in- 
terest foi: you. There is really nothing so common 
as not to deserve your attention. 



86 

I would fain have you not to be content with what 
is said in books, whether small or great, but rather 
to get into the habit of using your own eyes and 
seeing for yourselves what takes place in this won- 
derful world of ours. All round you there is abun- 5 
dant material for this most delightful inquiry. No 
excursion you ever made in pursuit of mere enjoy- 
ment and adventure by river, heath, or hill, could 
give you more hearty pleasure than a ramble, with 
eyes and ears alike open to note the lessons to beio 
learned from every day and from every landscape. 
Remember that besides the printed books which you 
use at home, or at school, there is the great book of 
Nature, wherein each of us, young and old, may read, 
and go on reading all through life without exhaust- 15 
ing even a small part of what it has to teach us. 

It is this book — about Air, Earth, and Sea — 
that I would have you look into. Do not be con- 
tent with merely noticing that such and such events 
take place. For instance, to return to our walk to 20 
the flooded river : do not let a fact such as a storm 
or a flood pass without trying to find out something 
about it. Get into the habit of asking Nature ques- 
tions. Never rest until you get at the reasons for 
what you notice going on around you. 26 

— Sir Archibald Oeikie, 



87 



THE GOODMAN OF BALLENGIECH. 

Perhaps few books of Scottish history have been 
more generally read than the " Tales of a Grand- 
father," written seventy years ago by Sir Walter 
Scott for the amusement of his little grandson. 

5 These " Tales " are supposed to be taken from the 
old Scotch chronicles, and they relate, with many 
touches of romance, the stirring and most graphic 
incidents in the early history of Scotland. They 
embrace the stories of William Wallace, the patriot 

10 chief, and of brave King Robert Bruce, and of many 
another hero of Scotch history. The following ac- 
count of King James V., who was the father of 
Mary, Queen of Scots, is taken from these ^' Tales." 

James the Fifth had a custom of going about the 
16 country disguised as a private person, in order to 
hear complaints that might not otherwise reach his 
ears, and perhaps also to enjoy amusement which he 
could not have partaken of in his character as King 
of Scotland. 
20 When James traveled in disguise he used a name 
which was known only to some of his nobles and 
attendants. He was called the Goodman (the ten- 
ant, that is) of Ballengiech.^ Ballengiech is a steep 

^ Pronounced b^U'en geek. 



pass which leads down behind the castle of Stirling. 
Once upon a time, when the court was feasting in 
Stirling, the king sent for some venison from the 
neighboring hills. The deer were killed and put 
on horses' backs to be transported to Stirling. 

Unluckily they had to pass the castle gates of 
Arnpryor, belonging to a chief of the Buchanans, 
who chanced to have a considerable number of guests 
with him. It was late, and the company was rather 
short of victuals, though they had more than enough lo 
of liquor. The chief, seeing so much fat venison 
passing his very door, seized on it; and to the 
expostulations of the keepers, who told him it 
belonged to King James, he answered insolently 
that if James was king in Scotland, he, Buchanan, is 
was king in Kippen, that being the name of the 
district in which the castle of Arnpryor lay. 

On hearing what had happened, the king got on 
horseback and rode instantly from Stirling to 
Buchanan's house, where he found a strong, fierce- 20 
looking Highlander, with an ax on his shoulder, 
standing sentinel at the door. This grim warder 
refused the king admittance, saying that the laird 
was at dinner and would not be disturbed. "Yet 
go up to the company, my good friend," said the 25 
king, " and tell him that the Goodman of Ballengiech 
is come to feast with the King of Kippen." 



89 

The porter went grumbling into the house and 
told his master that there was a fellow with a 
red beard at the gate, who called himself the Good- 
man of Ballengiech, and said he was come to dine 
with the King of Kippen. As soon as Buchanan 
heard these words, he knew that the king was come 
in person, and hastened down to kneel at James's 
feet and ask forgiveness for his insolent behavior. 
But the king, who only meant to give him a fright, 

10 forgave him freely, and going into the castle, feasted 
on his own venison which the chief had taken from 
his men. Buchanan of Ampryor was ever after- 
wards called the King of Kippen. 

Upon another occasion, King James, being alone 

15 and in disguise, fell into a quarrel with some gypsies, 
or other vagrants, and was assaulted by four or five 
of them. This chanced to be very near the bridge of 
Cramond ; so the king got on the bridge, which, as it 
was high and narrow, enabled him to defend himself 

20 with his sword against the number of persons by 
whom he was attacked. 

There was a poor farmer threshing corn in a 
barn near by, who came out on hearing the noise of 
the scuffle, and, seeing one man defending himself 

25 against numbers, gallantly took the king's part with 
his flail, to such good purpose that the gypsies were 
obliged to fly. The farmer then took the king 



90 

into the barn, brought him a towel and water to 
wash the blood from his face and hands, and finally 
walked ,with him a little way toward Edinburgh, 
in case he should be again attacked. 

On the way, the king asked his companion what 5 
and who he was. The man answered that his name 
was John Howieson, and that he was a bondsman 
on the farm of Braehead, near Cramond, which be- 
longed to the King of Scotland. James then asked 
him if there was any wish in the world which he 10 
would particularly wish to have gratified; and hon- 
est John confessed he should think himself the 
happiest man in Scotland were he but proprietor of 
the farm on which he wrought as a. laborer. 

He then asked the king in turn who he was, 15 
and James replied, as usual, that he was the Good- 
man of Ballengiech, a poor man who had a small 
appointment about the palace ; but he added that, if 
John Howieson would come to see him on the next 
Sunday, he would endeavor to repay his manful 20 
assistance, and, at least, give him the pleasure of 
seeing the royal apartments. 

John put on his best clothes, as you may suppose, 
and, appearing at a postern gate of the palace, in- 
quired for the Goodman of Ballengiech. The king 25 
had given orders that he should be admitted ; and 
John found his friend, the goodman, in the same 



91 

disguise which he had formerly worn. The king, 
conducted John Howieson from one apartment of 
the palace to another, and was amused with his 
wonder and his remarks. 

At length James asked his visitor if he would 
like to see the king; to which John replied that 
nothing would delight him so much, if he could 
do so without giving offense. The Goodman of 
Ballengiech, of course, undertook that the king 
^o would not be angry. "But," said John, "how am 
I to know his grace from the nobles who will be 
all about him?" — "Easily," replied his compan- 
ion; "all the others will be uncovered — the king 
alone will wear his hat or bonnet." 

15 So speaking. King James introduced the country- 
man into a great hall, which was filled with the 
nobility and officers of the crown. John was a lit- 
tle frightened, and drew close to his attendant, but 
was still unable to distinguish the king. "I told 

20 you that you should know him by his wearing his 

hat," said the conductor. "Then," said John, after 

he had again looked around the room, " it must be 

either you or me, for all but us two are bareheaded." 

The king laughed at John's fancy; and, that the 

25 good yeoman might have occasion for mirth also, 
he made him a present of the farm of Braehead, 
which he had wished so much to possess. 



92 



BUGLE SONG. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story : 

The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

Oh hark ! oh hear ! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, further going ! 

Oh sweet and far, from cliff and scar^ 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

Oh love, they die in yon rich sky, 
They faint on hill or field or river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

— Alfred Tennyson, 



SOME EXPERIENCES AT SEA. 

I. THE FIttST DAYS OUT. 

In 1834, Richard Henry Dana, Jr., then a young 
man of nineteen, made a voyage to California, which 
was at that time almost an unknown region. He 
went as a common sailor " before the mast " ; and 
on his return he wrote a narrative of his experience, 
depicting in its true colors the real life of the sailor 
at sea. This narrative was published in a volume 
entitled " Two Years before the Mast," and is still 
regarded as one of the most interesting 
o stories of its kind. The following i 
Mr. Dana's account of some of his 
first experiences at sea ; — 

" With all my imperfections on 
my head," I joined the crew. We • 
15 hauled out into the stream, and 
came to anchor for the night. 
The next morning was Saturday ; 
and, a breeze having sprung up 
from the southward, we took a a fuu ngg^d etip. 

30 pilot on board, hove up our anchor, and began beat- 
ing down the bay. 

I took leave of those of my friends who came to 
Bee me off, and had barely opportunity to take a last 
look at the city and well-known objects, as no time 




is allowed on board ship for sentiment. As we drew 
down into the lower harbor, we found the wind 
ahead in the bay, and were obliged to come to 
anchor in the roads. We remained there through 
the day and a part of the night. 5 

About midnight the wind became fair ; and hav- 
ing called the captain, I was ordered to call all 
hands. How I accomplished this I do not know; 
but I am quite sure that I did not give the true, 
hoarse, boatswain call of " A-a-11 ha-a-a-nds ! up la 
anchor, a-ho-oy ! " In a short time every one was 
in motion, the sails loosed, the yards braced, and we 
began to heave up the anchor, which was our last 
hold upon Yankee-land. 

I could take but little part in these preparations, ic 
My little knowledge of a vessel was all at fault. 
Unintelligible orders were so rapidly given, and so 
immediately executed, there was such a hurrying 
about, such an intermingling of strange cries and 
stranger actions, that I was completely bewildered. 20 
There is not so helpless and pitiable an object in the 
world as a landsman beginning a sailor's life. 

The first day we passed at sea was the Sabbath. 
As we were just from port, and there was a great 
deal to be done on board, we were kept at work all 25 
day. At night the watches were set, and everything 
put into sea order. I had now a fine time for reflec- 



95 

tion. I felt for the first time the perfect silence of 
the sea. The officer was walking the quarter-deck, 
where I had no right to go. One or two men were 
talking on the forecastle, whom I had little inclinar 
tion to join; so that I was left open to the full 
impression of everything about me. 

However much I was affected by the beauty of the 
sea, the bright stars, and the clouds driven swiftly 
over them, I could not but remember that I was 

r> separating myself from all the social and intellectual 
enjoyments of life. Yet, strange as it may seem, 
I did then and afterwards take pleasure in these 
reflections, hoping by them to prevent my becoming 
insensible to the value of what I was leaving. 

i-5 But all my dreams were soon put to flight by an 
order from the officer to trim the yards, as the wind 
was getting ahead. I could plainly see, by the looks 
the sailors occasionally cast to windward, and by the 
dark clouds that were fast coming up, that we 

20 had bad weather to prepare for, and had heard the 
captain say that he expected to be in the Gulf 
Stream by twelve o'clock. In a few minutes " eight 
bells" was struck, the watch called, and we went 
below. 

26 I now bepjan to feel the first discomforts of a 
sailor's life. The steerage in which I lived was 
filled with coils of rigging, spare sails, old junk, and 



96 

ship stores, which had not been stowed away. More- 
over, there had been no berths built for us to sleep 
in, and we were not allowed to drive nails to hang 
our clothes upon. 

The sea, too, had risen, the vessel was rolling s 
heavily, and everything was pitched about in grand 
confusion. I shortly heard the raindrops falling on 
deck, thick and fast. The watch had evidently their 
hands full of work, for I could hear the loud and 
repeated orders of the mate, the trampling of feet, ip 
the creaking of blocks, and all the indications of a 
coming storm. 

When 1 got upon deck, a new scene and a new 
experience were before me. The little brig was close- 
hauled upon the wind, and lying over, as it then ^^ 
seemed to me, nearly upon her beam ends. The 
heavy head sea was beating against her bows with, 
the noise and force almost of a sledge hammer, 
and flying over the deck, drenching us completely 
through. The topsail halyards had been let go, ani 
the great sails were filling out and backing against> 
the masts with a noise like thunder. The wind wa 
whistling through the rigging, loose ropes flyin 
about; loud, and to me unintelligible, orders wer^ 
constantly given, and rapidly executed; and th^ 
sailors were ^^ singing out" at the ropes in thei:i' 
hoarse and peculiar strains. 



97 

In addition to all this, I had not got my " sea legs 

on/' was dreadfully sick, with hardly strength enough 

to hold on to anything ; and it was pitch dark. This 

was my state when I was ordered aloft, for the first 

5 time, to reef topsails. 

How I got along I cannot now remember. I '' laid 
out " on the yards, and held on with all my strength. 
I could not have been of much service, for I remem- 
ber having been sick several times before I left the 
10 topsail yard. Soon, however, all was snug aloft, 
and we were again allowed to go below. 

This I did not consider much of a favor, for the 
confusion of every thing below, made the steerage but 
an indifferent refuge from the cold, wet decks. I 
15 had of t^n read of the nautical experiences of others, 
but I felt as though there could be none worse than 
mine ; for, in addition to every other evil, I could 
not but remember that this was only the first night 



of a two-years voyage. 

II. VIEW OF AN ICEBERG. 

20 At twelve o'clock we went below, and had just got 
through dinner, when the cook put his head down 
the scuttle, and told us to come on deck, and see the 
finest sight we had ever seen. 

" Where away, cook ? " asked the first man who 



98 

" On the larboard bow." 

And there lay, floating in the ocean, several miles 
off, an immense irregular mass, its tops and points 
covered with snow, and its center of a deep indigo 
color. It was an iceberg, and of the largest size. 5 

As far as the eye could reach, the sea in every 
direction was of a deep blue color, the waves running 
high and fresh, and sparkling in the light ; and in 
the midst lay this immense mountain island, its 
cavities and valleys thrown into deep shade, andio 
its points and pinnacles glittering in the sun. 

No description can give an idea of the strangeness 
and splendor of the sight. Its great size — for it 
must have been two or three miles in circumference, 
and several himdred feet in height ; its slow motion i5 
as its base rose and sank in the water, and its high 
points nodded against the clouds ; the dashing waves 
upon, it, which, breaking high with foam, lined its 
base with a white crust; and the thundering sound 
of the crackling mass, and the breaking and tum-20 
bling down of huge pieces ; together with its near- 
ness and approach, which added a slight element of 
fear — all combined to give it the character of true 
sublimity. 

The main body of the mass was, as I have said, of-^ 
an indigo color, its base crusted with frozen foam; 
and as it grew thin and transparent toward the 



99 

edges and top, its color shaded off from a deep blue 
to the whiteness of snow. It seemed to be drifting 
slowly toward the north. It was in sight all the 
afternoon, and when we got to leeward of it the 

5 wind died away, so that we lay to quite near it for 
the greater part of the night. 

Unfortunately there was no moon ; but it was a 
clear night, and we could plainly mark the long, 
regular heaving mass, as its edges moved slowly 

10 against the stars. Several times in our watch loud 
cracks were heard, which sounded as though they 
must have run through the whole length of the ice- 
berg, and several pieces fell down with a thundering 
crash, plunging heavily into the sea. Towards 

16 morning a breeze sprang up, we filled away, and 

left it astern, and at daylight it was out of sight. 

No pencil has ever yet given anything like a true 

effect of an iceberg. In a picture they are huge, 

uncouth masses stuck in the sea; while their chief 

20 beauty and grandeur — their slow, stately motion, the 
whirling of the snow about their summits, and the 
fearful groaning and crackling of their parts — 
the picture cannot give. This is the large iceberg ; 
while the small and distant islands, floating on the 

25 smooth sea in the light of a clear day, look like little 
floating fairy isles of sapphire. 
— From " Two Tears before the Mast,^^ by Bichard Henry Dana, 



DANIEL BOONE. 



The settlement of the wilderness beyond the Alle- 
ghany Mountains was promoted by native pioneers. 
In his peaceful habitation on the banks of the Yad- 
kin River in North Carolina, Daniel 
liooiie, the illustrious hunter, had " 
heard Finley, a trader, describe a 
tract of land, west of Virginia, 
as the richest in North Amer- 
ica, or in the world. In May, 
1769, leaving his wife and lo 
offspring, having Finley as 
hi& pilot, and four others as 
companions, the young man, 
of about three and twenty, 
""^**"- wandered foHh through the is 

wilderness of America " in quest of the country of 
Kentucky," known to the savages as "the dark 
and bloody ground." After a long and fatiguing 
journey through mountain ranges, the party found 
themselves in June on the Red River, a tributary of m 
the Kentucky, and from the top of an eminence sur- 
veyed with delight the beautiful plain that stretched 
to the northwest. Here they built their shelter and 
began to reconnoiter the country, and to hvint. 




101 

All the kinds of wild beasts that were natural to 
America — the stately elk, the timid deer, the ant- 
lered stag, the wild-cat, the bear, the panther, and 
the wolf — couched among the canes, or roamed 

5 over the rich grasses, which even beneath the thick- 
est shade sprung luxuriantly out of the generous 
soil. The buffaloes cropped fearlessly the herbage, 
or browsed on the leaves of the reed, and were more 
frequent than cattle in the settlements of Carolina. 

10 Sometimes there were hundreds in a drove, and 
round the salt licks their numbers were amazing. 

The summer in which, for the first time, a party 
of white men enjoyed the brilliancy of nature near 
and in the valley of the Elkhorn passed away in the 

15 occupations of exploring parties and the chase. But, 
one by one, Boone's companions dropped off, till he 
was left alone with John Stewart. They jointly 
found unceasing delight in the wonders of the 
forest, till, one evening near the Kentucky River, 

20 they were taken prisoners by a band of Indians, wan- 
derers like themselves. They escaped, and were 
joined by Boone's brother ; so that when Stewart 
was soon after killed by savages, Boone still had 
his brother to share with him the dangers and the 

25 attractions of the wilderness, the building and occu- 
pying of the first cottage in Kentucky. 

In the spring of 1770 that brother returned to the 



102 

settlements for horses and supplies of ammunition, 
leaving the renowned hunter "by himself, without 
bread, or salt, or even a horse or dog." The idea of 
a beloved wife anxious for his safety, tinged his 
thoughts with sadness; but otherwise the cheerful, 6 
meditative man, careless of wealth, knowing the use 
of the rifle, not the plow, of a strong robust frame, 
in the vigorous health of early manhood, ignorant 
of books, but versed in the forest and in forest life, 
ever fond of tracking the deer on foot, away from lo 
men, yet in his disposition humane, generous, and 
gentle, was happy in the uninterrupted succession of 
sylvan pleasures. He held unconscious intercourse 
with beauty old as creation. 

One calm summer's evening, as he climbed a com- is 
manding ridge, and looked upon the remote, venera- 
ble mountains and the nearer ample plains, and 
caught a glimpse in the distance of the Ohio, which 
bounded the land of his affections with majestic 
grandeur, his heart exulted in the region he had 20 
discovered. All things were still. Not a breeze so 
much as shook a leaf. He kindled a fire near a 
fountain of sweet water, and feasted on the loin of 
a buck. He was no more alone than ,a bee among 
flowers, but communed familiarly with the 'wholes 
universe of life. Nature was his intimate, and she 
responded to his intelligence. 



103 

For him the rocks and the fountains, the leaf and 
the blade of grass, had life ; the cooling air laden 
with the wild perfume came to him as a friend ; the 
dewy morning wrapped him in its embrace ; the 

5 trees stood up gloriously round about him as so 
many myriads of companions. All forms wore the 
character of desire or peril. But how could he be 
afraid ? Triumphing over danger, he knew no fear. 
The perpetual howling of the wolves by night round 

10 his cottage or his bivouac in the brake was his diver- 
sion; and by day he had joy in surveying the various 
species of animals that surrounded him. He loved 
the solitude better than the towered city or the hum 
of business. 

15 Near the end of 1770, his faithful brother came 
back to meet him at the old camp. Shortly after they 
proceeded together to the Cumberland River, giving 
names to the different waters ; and he then returned 
to his wife and children, fixed in his purpose, at the 

20 risk of life and fortune, to bring them as soon as pos- 
sible to live in Kentucky, which he esteemed a second 

Paradise. 

II. 

In March, 1775, Daniel Boone, with a body of 

enterprising companions, proceeded to mark out a 

25 path up Powell's valley, and through the mountains 

and canebrakes beyond. On the twenty-fifth of the 



104 

month they were waylaid by Indians, who killed two 
men and wounded another very severely. Two days 
later the savages killed and scalped two more. 
" Now/' wrote Daniel Boone, '^ is the time to keep 
the country while we are in it. If we give way now, 5 
it will ever be the case," and he pressed forward 
to the Kentucky River. There, on the first day of 
April, at the distance of about sixty yards from its 
west bank, near the mouth of Otter Creek, he began 
a stockade fort, which took the name of Boonesboro. 10 

At that place, while the congress at Philadelphia 
was groping irresolutely in the dark, seventeen men 
assembled as representatives of the four "towns" 
that then formed the seed of the state. Among 
these children of nature was Daniel Boone, the pio-is 
neer of the party. His colleague, Richard Calloway, 
was one of the founders of Kentucky, and one of its 
early martyrs. The town of St. Asaph sent John 
Floyd, a surveyor, who emigrated from southwestern 
Virginia; an able writer, respected for his culture 20 
and dignity of manner; of innate good breeding; 
ready to defend the weak ; heedless of his own life if 
he could recover women and children who had been 
made captive by the savages ; destined to do good 
service, and survive the dangers of western life tillr.* 
American independence should be fought for and won. 

From the settlement at Boiling Spring came James 



105 

Harrod, the same who, in 1774, had led a party of 
forty-one to Harrodsburg, and during the summer 
of that year had built the first log-cabin in Ken- 
tucky ; a tall, erect, and resolute backwoodsman ; 

5 unlettered but not ignorant ; intrepid yet gentle ; 
never weary of kind offices to those around him ; a 
skillful hunter, for whom the rifle had a companion- 
ship, and the wilderness a charm. 

These and their associates;, the fathers of Ken- 

lotucky, seventeen in all, met on the 23d of May, 
beneath the great elm tree of Boonesboro, outside of 
the fort, on the thick sward of the fragrant white 
clover. The convention having been organized, 
prayers were read by a minister of the Church of 

15 England. A speech was then delivered to the con- 
vention in behalf of the proprietary purchases of the 
land from the Cherokees. To it a committee, of 
which Calloway was the head, made reply. '^Deeply 
impressed," they said, "with a sense of the importance 

20 of the trust our constituents have reposed in us, we 
will attempt the task with vigor, not doubting but 
unanimity will insure us success. That we have a 
right, as a political body, without giving umbrage to 
Great Britain, or any of the colonies, to frame rules 

25 for the government of our little society, cannot be 
doubted by any sensible or unbiased mind." 

So reasoned the fathers of Kentucky. In their 



106 

legislation, it was their chief care to copy after the 
happy pattern of the English laws. Their colony 
they called Transylvania. For defense against the 
savages, they organized a militia ; they discounte- 
nanced profane swearing and Sabbath breaking ; they 5 
took thought for preventing the waste of game, and 
improving the breed of horses ; and by solemn agree- 
ment they established as the basis of their constitu- 
tion the annual choice of delegates; taxes to be 
raised by the convention alone ; perfect religious lo 
freedom and general toleration. 

Thus a little band of hunters put themselves at 
the head of the countless hosts of civilization in 
establishing the great principle of intellectual free- 
dom. Long as the shadows of the western mountain i5 
shall move round with the sun, long as the rivers 
that gush from those mountains shall flow toward 
the sea, long as seedtime and harvest shall return, 
that rule shall remain the law of the West. 

The state of Kentucky honors the memory of the 20 
plain, simple-hearted man, who is best known as its 
pioneer. He was kindly in his nature, and never 
wronged a human being, not even an Indian, nor, 
indeed, animal life of any kind. "I with others 
have fought Indians," he would say; "but I do not 25 
know that I ever killed one. If I did, it was in 
battle, and I never knew it." In woodcraft he was 



acknowledged to be the first among men. This led 
him to love solitude, and to hover on the frontier, 
with no abiding place, accompanied by the wife of 
his youth, who was the companion of his long life 

6 and travel. When, at last, death put them both to 
rest, Kentucky reclaimed their bones from their graves 
far up the Missouri; and now they lie buried on the 
hill above the cliffs of the Kentucky River, overlook- 
ing the lovely valley of the capital of that common- 

10 wealth. Around them are emblems of wilderness life ; 
the turf of the blue grass lies lightly above them ; 
and they are laid with their faces 
turned upward and westward, and 
their feet toward the setting sim. 

IS Such is the account which 
George Bancroft, the first of 
American historians, gives of 
Daniel Boone, the pioneer 
of Kentucky, and of the 

» founding of the common- 
wealth of which Boone was 

IMOIgS JMDDIOtt. 

the earnest and most distm- 

guished promoter. Few other works have contrib- 
uted so much to the dignity and distinction of our 
^literature as has Bancroft's "History of the United 
States," from which this extract has been taken. 




98 

" On the larboard bow." 

And there lay, floating in the ocean, several miles 
off, an immense irregular mass, its tops and points 
covered with snow, and its center of a deep indigo 
color. It was an iceberg, and of the largest size. 6 

As far as the eye could reach, the sea in every 
direction was of a deep blue color, the waves running 
high and fresh, and sparkling in the light ; and in 
the midst lay this immense mountain island, its 
cavities and valleys thrown into deep shade, andio 
its points and pinnacles glittering in the sun. 

No description can give an idea of the strangeness 
and splendor of the sight. Its great size — for it 
must have been two or three miles in circumference, 
and several hundred feet in height ; its slow motion 15 
as its base rose and sank in the water, and its high 
points nodded against the clouds ; the dashing waves 
upon it, which, breaking high with foam, lined its 
base with a white crust; and the thundering sound 
of the crackling mass, and the breaking and turn- 20 
bling down of huge pieces ; together with its near- 
ness and approach, which added a slight element of 
fear — all combined to give it the character of true 
sublimity. 

The main body of the mass was, as I have said, of ':;, 
an indigo color, its base crusted with frozen foam ; 
and as it grew thin and transparent toward the 



99 

edges and top, its color shaded off from a deep blue 
to the whiteness of snow. It seemed to be drifting 
slowly toward the north. It was in sight all the 
afternoon, and when we got to leeward of it the 

5 wind died away, so that we lay to quite near it for 
the greater part of the night. 

Unfortunately there was no moon ; but it was a 
clear night, and we could plainly mark the long, 
regular heaving mass, as its edges moved slowly 

10 against the stars. Several times in our watch loud 
cracks were heard, which sounded as though they 
must have run through the whole length of the ice- 
berg, and several pieces fell down with a thundering 
crash, plunging heavily into the sea. Towards 

16 morning a breeze sprang up, we filled away, and 

left it astern, and at daylight it was out of sight. 

No pencil has ever yet given anything like a true 

effect of an iceberg. In a picture they are huge, 

uncouth masses stuck in the sea ; while their chief 

20 beauty and grandeur — their slow, stately motion, the 
whirling of the snow about their summits, and the 
fearful groaning and crackling of their parts — 
the picture cannot give. This is the large iceberg ; 
while the small and distant islands, floating on the 

25 smooth sea in the light of a clear day, look like little 
floating fairy isles of sapphire. 
— From " Two Years before the Mast/' by Richard Henry Dana, 



100 
DANIEL BOONE. 

The settlement of the wilderness beyond the Alle- 
ghany Mountains was promoted by native pioneers. 
In his peaceful habitation on the banks of the Yad- 
kin River in North Carolina, Daniel 
Boone, the illustrious hunter, had » 
Iieard Finley, a trader, describe a 
tract of land, west of Virginia, 
as the richest in North Amer- 
ica, or in the world. In May, 
1769, leaving his wife and lo 
offspring, having Finley as 
his pilot, and four others as 
companions, the young man, 
of about three and twenty, 
'^' wandered forth through the is 

wilderness of America " in quest of the country of 
Kentucky," known to the savages as "the dark 
and bloody ground," After a long and fatiguing 
journey through mountain ranges, the party found 
themselves in June on the Red River, a tributary of 20 
the Kentucky, and from the top of an eminence sur- 
veyed with delight the beautiful plain that stretched 
to the northwest. Here they built their shelter and 
began to reconnoiter the country, and to hunt. 




101 

All the kinds of wild beasts that were natural to 
America — the stately elk, the timid deer, the ant- 
lered stag, the wild-cat, the bear, the panther, and 
the wolf — couched among the canes, or roamed 

5 over the rich grasses, which even beneath the thick- 
est shade sprung luxuriantly out of the generous 
soil. The buffaloes cropped fearlessly the herbage, 
or browsed on the leaves of the reed, and were more 
frequent than cattle in the settlements of Carolina. 

10 Sometimes there were hundreds in a drove, and 
round the salt licks their numbers were amazing. 

The summer in which, for the first time, a party 
of white men enjoyed the brilliancy of nature near 
and in the valley of the Elkhorn passed away in the 

15 occupations of exploring parties and the chase. But, 
one by one, Boone's companions dropped off, till he 
was left alone with John Stewart. They jointly 
found unceasing delight in the wonders of the 
forest, till, one evening near the Kentucky River, 

20 they were taken prisoners by a band of Indians, wan- 
derers like themselves. They escaped, and were 
joined by Boone's brother ; so that when Stewart 
was soon after killed by savages, Boone still had 
his brother to share with him the dangers and the 

25 attractions of the wilderness, the building and occu- 
pying of the first cottage in Kentucky. 

In the spring of 1770 that brother returned to the 



102 

settlements for horses and supplies of ammunition, 
leaving the renowned hunter "by himself, without 
bread, or salt, or even a horse or dog." The idea of 
a beloved wife anxious for his safety, tinged his 
thoughts with sadness; but otherwise the cheerful, 6 
meditative man, careless of wealth, knowing the use 
of the rifle, not the plow, of a strong robust frame, 
in the vigorous health of early manhood, ignorant 
of books, but versed in the forest and in forest life, 
ever fond of tracking the deer on foot, away from lo 
men, yet in his disposition humane, generous, and 
gentle, was happy in the uninterrupted succession of 
sylvan pleasures. He held unconscious intercourse 
with beauty old as creation. 

One calm summer's evening, as he climbed a com- is 
manding ridge, and looked upon the remote, venera- 
ble mountains and the nearer ample plains, and 
caught a glimpse in the distance of the Ohio, which 
bounded the land of his affections with majestic 
grandeur, his heart exulted in the region he had 20 
discovered. All things were still. Not a breeze so 
much as shook a leaf. He kindled a fire near a 
fountain of sweet water, and feasted on the loin of 
a buck. He was no more alone than ,a bee among 
flowers, but communed familiarly with the 'whole 25 
universe of life. Nature was his intimate, and she 
responded to his intelligence. 



103 

For him the rocks and the fountains, the leaf and 
the blade of grass, had life; the cooling air laden 
with the wild perfume came to him as a friend ; the 
dewy morning wrapped him in its embrace; the 

5 trees stood up gloriously round about him as so 
many myriads of companions. All forms wore the 
character of desire or peril. But how could he be 
afraid ? Triumphing over danger, he knew no fear. 
The perpetual howling of the wolves by night round 

10 his cottage or his bivouac in the brake was his diver- 
sion ; and by day he had joy in surveying the various 
species of animals that surrounded him. He loved 
the solitude better than the towered city or the hum 
of business. 

15 Near the end of 1770, his faithful brother came 
back to meet him at the old camp. Shortly after they 
proceeded together to the Cumberland River, giving 
names to the different waters ; and he then returned 
to his wife and children, fixed in his purpose, at the 

20 risk of life and fortune, to bring them as soon as pos- 
sible to live in Kentucky, which he esteemed a second 

Paradise. 

II. 

In March, 1775, Daniel Boone, with a body of 

enterprising companions, proceeded to mark out a 

25 path up Powell's valley, and through the mountains 

and canebrakes beyond. On the twenty-fifth of the 



104 

month they were waylaid by Indians, who killed two 
men and wounded another very severely. Two days 
later the savages killed and scalped two more. 
" Now/' wrote Daniel Boone, ^^ is the time to keep 
the country while we are in it. If we give way now, 5 
it will ever be the case," and he pressed forward 
to the Kentucky River. There, on the first day of 
April, at the distance of about sixty yards from its 
west bank, near the mouth of Otter Creek, he began 
a stockade fort, which took the name of Boonesboro. 10 

At that place, while the congress at Philadelphia 
was groping irresolutely in the dark, seventeen men 
assembled as representatives of the four "towns" 
that then formed the seed of the state. Among 
these children of nature was Daniel Boone, the pio-is 
neer of the party. His colleague, Richard Calloway, 
was one of the founders of Kentucky, and one of its 
early martyrs. The town of St. Asaph sent John 
Floyd, a surveyor, who emigrated from southwestern 
Virginia; an able writer, respected for his culture 20 
and dignity of manner; of innate good breeding; 
ready to defend the weak ; heedless of his own life if 
he could recover women and children who had been 
made captive by the savages ; destined to do good 
service, and survive the dangers of western life till r;5 
American independence should be fought for and won. 

From the settlement at Boiling Spring came James 



105 

Harrod, the same who, in 1774, had led a party of 
forty-one to Harrodsburg, and during the summer 
of that year had built the first log-cabin in Ken- 
tucky ; a tall, erect, and resolute backwoodsman ; 

5 unlettered but not ignorant ; intrepid yet gentle ; 
never weary of kind offices to those around him ; a 
skillful hunter, for whom the rifle had a companion- 
ship, and the wilderness a charm. 

These and their associates;, the fathers of Ken- 

lotucky, seventeen in all, met on the 23d of May, 
beneath the great elm tree of Boonesboro, outside of 
the fort, on the thick sward of the fragrant white 
clover. The convention having been organized, 
prayers were read by a minister of the Church of 

15 England. A speech was then delivered to the con- 
vention in behalf of the proprietary purchases of the 
land from the Cherokees. To it a committee, of 
which Calloway was the head, made reply. '^Deeply 
impressed," they said, "with a sense of the importance 

20 of the trust our constituents have reposed in us, we 
will attempt the task with vigor, not doubting but 
unanimity will insure us success. That we have a 
right, as a political body, without giving umbrage to 
Great Britain, or any of the colonies, to frame rules 

15 for the government of our little society, cannot be 
doubted by any sensible or unbiased mind." 

So reasoned the fathers of Kentucky. In their 



106 

legislation, it was their chief care to copy after the 
happy pattern of the English laws. Their colony 
they called Transylvania. For defense against the 
savages, they organized a militia ; they discounte- 
nanced profane swearing and Sabbath breaking ; they 5 
took thought for preventing the waste of game, and 
improving the breed of horses ; and by solemn agree- 
ment they established as the basis of their constitu- 
tion the annual choice of delegates; taxes to be 
raised by the convention alone ; perfect religious lo 
freedom and general toleration. 

Thus a little band of hunters put themselves at 
the head of the countless hosts of civilization in 
establishing the great principle of intellectual free- 
dom. Long as the shadows of the western mountain i5 
shall move round with the sun, long as the rivers 
that gush from those mountains shall flow toward 
the sea, long as seedtime and harvest shall return, 
that rule shall remain the law of the West. 

The state of Kentucky honors the memory of the 20 
plain, simple-hearted man, who is best known as its 
pioneer. He was kindly in his nature, and never 
wronged a human being, not even an Indian, nor, 
indeed, animal life of any kind. "I with others 
have fought Indians," he would say; "but I do not 25 
know that I ever killed one. If I did, it was in 
battle, and I never knew it." In woodcraft he was 



acknowledged to be the first among men. This led 
him to love solitude, and to hover on the frontier, 
with no abiding place, accompanied by the wife of 
his youth, who was the companion of his long life 
and travel. When, at last, death put them both to 
rest, Kentucky reclaimed their bones from their graves 
far up the Missouri ; and now they lie buried on the 
hill a!x)ve the cliffs of the Kentucky River, overlook- 
ing the lovely valley of the capital of that eommon- 
) wealth. Around them are emblems of wilderness life ; 
the turf of the blue grass lies lightly above them ; 
and they are laid with their faces 
turned upward and westward, and 
their feet toward the setting sun. 

i Such is the account which 
George Bancroft, the first of 
American historians, gives of 
Daniel Boone, the pioneer 
of Kentucky, and of the 

» founding of the common- 
wealth of which Boone was 

u«oig« MHoion. 
the earliest and most distm- 

guished promoter. Few other works have contrib- 
uted so much to the dignity and distinction of our 
'literature as has Bancroft's "History of the United 
' from which this extract has been taken. 




FULTON'S FIRST STEAMBOAT. 



It is common to speak of Robert Fulton as the 
inventor of the steamboat. Other persons before 
him, however, had esperimented with 
machinery for propelling vessels by 
steam. They had met with but lit- s 
tie success or encouragement, and 
it was left for Fulton to demon- 
strate the practical value of 
steam as a means of propul- 
sion and to show the superi-w 
ority of steamboats to vessels 
depending solely upon the wind 
for motive power, Robert Fulton 

Eobert Fulton. 

was born m Pennsylvania m 1765. 
He began his experiments with steam in 1793, andw 
his first successful steamboat, the "Clermont," was 
launched on the Hudson in 1807. The trip from 
New York to Albany occupied thirty-two hours, the 
rate of speed being about five miles an hour. Mr. 
Fulton himself has left us the following account oi^ 
the trial of his boat : — 




When I was building my first steamboat, the 
project was viewed by the public at New York 
either with indifference or contempt, as a vision- 



109 

ary scheme. My friends indeed were civil, but they 
were shy. They listened with patience to my expla- 
nations, but with a settled cast of incredulity on 
their countenances. I felt the full force of the 
lamentation of the poet — 

*' Truths would you teach, to save a sinking land ? 
All shun, none aid you, and few understand." 

As I had occasion to pass daily to and from the 
building yard while my boat was in progress, I 

often loitered, unknown, near the idle groups of 
strangers gathering in little circles, and heard vari- 
ous inquiries as to the object of this new vehicle. 
The language was uniformly that of scorn, sneer, 
or ridicule. The loud laugh rose at my expense; 

.5 the dry jest, the wise calculations of losses and 
expenditure ; the dull but endless repetition of '' the 
Fulton folly V Never did an encouraging remark, 
a bright hope, or a warm wish cross my path. 

At length the day arrived when the experiment 

iowas to be made. To me it was a most trying 
and interesting occasion. I wanted my friends to 
go on board and witness the first successful trip. 
Many of them did me the favor to attend, as a 
matter of personal respect ; but it was manifest 

55 they did it with reluctance, fearing to be partakers 
of my mortification and not of my triumph. 

The moment approached in which the word was 




110 

to be given for the vessel to move. My friends were 
in groups on the deck. There was anxiety mixed 
with fear among them. I read in their looks noth- 
ing but disaster, and almost repented of my efforts. 
The signal was given, and the boat moved on a short 5 
distance, and then stopped and became immovable. 

To the silence of the preceding moment now suc- 
ceeded murmurs of discontent and agitation, and 

whispers and shrugs. I could 
hear distinctly repeated, "1 10 
told you so — it is a foolish 
scheme. I wish we were 
„, ,,^, .. well out of it." I elevated 

The " Clermont." 

myself on a platform, and 
addressed the assembly. I stated that I knew not 15 
what was the matter ; but if they would indulge me 
for half an hour, I would either go on or abandon 
the voyage for that time. 

This short respite was conceded without objection. 
I went below and examined the machinery, and dis- 20 
covered that the cause was a slight defect in a 
part of the work. This was soon remedied; the 
boat was put again in motion ; she continued to 
move on. All were still incredulous; none seemed 
willing to trust the evidence of their own senses. 25 

We left the fair city of New York ; we passed 
through the romantic and ever-varying scenery of 



the Highlands; we descried the clustering houses 
of Albany ; we reached its shores ; yet even then 
imagination superseded the force of fact. It was 
doubted if it could be done again. 



THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE TREE. 

Come, let us plant the apple 
tree ! 
Cleave the tough greensward witli 

the spade ; 
Wide let its hollow bed be 

made; 
There gently lay the roots, 

and there 
Sift the dark mold with 

kindly care, 
And press it o'er them tenderly, wmum odien Bryant, 

As round the sleeping infant's feet 
We softly fold the cradle sheet ; 
So plant we the apple tree. 

What plant we in this apple tree ? 
Buds, which the breath of summer days 
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ; 
Boughs, where the thrush with crimson breast 




112 



Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest. 

We plant upon the sunny lea 
A shadow for the noontide hour, 
A shelter from the summer shower, 

When we plant the apple tree. 

What plant we in this apple tree ? 
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 
To load the May wind's restless wings, 
When from the orchard row he pours 
Its fragrance through our open doors. 

A world of blossoms for the bee, 
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room. 
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom 

We plant with the apple tree. 

What plant we in this apple tree ? 
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, 
And redden in the August noon. 
And drop when gentle airs come by 
That fan the blue September sky, 

While children, wild with noisy glee, 
Shall scent their fragrance as they pass 
And search for them the tufted grass 

At the foot of the apple tree. 

And when above this apple tree 
The winter stars are quivering bright. 



113 



And winds go howling through the night, 
Girls whose young eyes overflow with mirth 
Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth ; 

And guests in prouder homes shall see, 
Heaped with the orange and the grape, 
As fair as they in tint and shape. 

The fruit of the apple tree. 

The fruitage of this apple tree 
Winds and our flag of stripe and star 
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, 
Where men shall wonder at the view 
And ask in what fair groves they grew ; 

And they who roam beyond the sea 
Shall think of childhood's careless day 
And long hours passed in summer play 

In the shade of the apple tree. 

But time shall waste this apple tree. 
Oh ! when its aged branches throw 
Their shadows on the world below. 
Shall fraud and force and iron will 
Oppress the weak and helpless still ? 

What shall the task of mercy be 
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears 
Of those who live when leno-th of years 

Is wasting this apple tree ? 

SCH. BEAD. V. — 8 



" Who planted this old apple tree ? " 
The children of that distant day 
Thus to some aged man shall say ; 
And, gazing on its mossy stem, 
The gray-haired man shall answer them : 

" A poet of the land was he, 
Bom in the rude but good old times ; 
'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes 

On planting the apple tree." 

— William Cullen Bryant. 




THE CORN SONG. 

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! 
Heap high the golden corn ! 
No richer gift has Autumn poured 
From out her lavish horn ! 



Let other lands, exulting, glean 
The apple from the pine, 
The orange from its glossy green, 
The cluster from the vine ; 



John S. Whittier. 



We better love the hardy gift 
Our rugged vales bestow, 



115 

To cheer us when the storm shall drift 
Our harvest fields with snow. 

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers 

Our plows their furrows made, 
While on the hills the sun and showers 

Of changeful April played. 

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain 

Beneath the sun of May, 
And frightened from our sprouting grain 

The robber crows away. 

All through the long, bright days of June 

Its leaves grew green and fair, 
And waved in hot, midsummer's noon 

Its soft and yellow hair. 

And now with autumn's moonlit eves, 

Its harvest time has come. 
We pluck away the frosted leaves. 

And bear the treasure home. 

There, when the snows about us drift. 

And winter winds are cold. 
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, 

And knead its meal of gold. 



116 



Let vapid idlers loll in silk 

Around their costly board ; 
Give us the bowl of samp and milk 

By homespun beauty poured ! 

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth 

Sends up its smoky curls, 
Who will not thank the kindly earth, 

And bless our farmer girls ! 

Then shame on all the proud and vain, 

Whose folly laughs to scorn 
The blessing of our hardy grain, 

Our wealth of golden corn ! 

Let earth withhold her goodly root, 

Let mildew blight the rye. 
Give to the worm the orchard's fruit, 

The wheatfield to the fly. 

But let the good old crop adorn 

The hills our fathers trod ; 
Still let us, for his golden corn. 

Send up our thanks to God. 

— John G, Whittier. 



HUNTING THE WALRUS. 

The walrus is one of the largest animals still 
extant, and although the element of personal danger 
is not so great in hunting it as in hunting some 
beasts of lesser bulk, yet the conditions under which 




ValnuH it Home, 

the sport is pursued, as well as the nature of the 
iport itself, are such as will probably tempt one who 
bas once tried this form of sport to return to it. 

An average-sized four-year-old walrus will measure 
ten feet in length and about the same in girth. The 
weight is, of course, difficult to determine ; but it is 
probably about 3000 pounds, of which 350 pounds 
may be reckoned as blubber, and 300 pounds as hide. 



118 

The blubber, to be utilized, is mixed with that of 
the seals which may be obtained, and the oil, which 
is extracted by heat and pressure, sold as " seal oil " ; 
the hide, which is from an inch to an inch and a half 
in thickness, and makes a soft, spongy leather, is s 
exported principally to Russia and Germany, where 
it is used for making harness and other heavy 
leather goods. 

The walrus is a carnivorous animal, feeding mostly 
upon shellfish and worms, and is therefore generally lo 
found in the shallow waters along a coast line, div- 
ing for its food on banks which lie at a depth of 
from two to twenty fathoms below the surface. 
Deeper than that the walrus does not care to go; in 
fact, it generally feeds in about fifteen fathoms. i5 

The tusks are principally used to plow up the 
bottom in search of food, but are also employed as 
weapons, and in climbing upon the ice. They are 
composed of hard white ivory, set for about six 
inches of their length in a hard bony mass, about 20 
six inches in diameter, which forms the front of the 
head ; the breathing passage runs through this mass, 
and terminates in two "blow holes" between the 
roots of the tusks. The tusk itself is solid, except 
that portion which is imbedded in the bone, and this 26 
is filled with a cellular structm*e containing a whitish 
oil. 



119 

A walrus killed in the water immediately sinks ; 
even if mortally wounded, it will in nine cases out of 
ten escape, and sink to the bottom. When on the 
ice, these animals always lie close to the water, and 

5 it is therefore necessary to kill them instantly, or 
they will reach the water and be lost before the boat 
can arrive within harpooning distance. This can 
only be done by shooting them in such a way as to 
penetrate the brain, which is no easy matter. The 

10 brain lies in what appears to be the neck; that 
which one would naturally suppose to be the head 
being nothing but the heavy jaw bones, and mass of 
bone in which the tusks are set. 

What becomes of the walrus in winter it is hard 

15 to say ; but I have heard them blowing in an open 
pool of water among the ice on the north coast 
of Spitzbergen in the month of December. In the 
spring, however, when the ice begins to break up, 
they collect in herds on their feeding grounds around 

20 the coasts, where they may be found diving for shell- 
fish, or basking and sleeping, singly or in ^'heaps'' of 
two or three, often five or six, together. 

They seem to prefer to lie on small cakes of flat 
bay ice; a single walrus will often take his siesta on 

25 a cake only just large enough to float him, and it is 
among such ice, therefore, rather than among rough 
old pack and glacier blocks, that they should be 



120 

sought, although I have seen them lying on heavy 
old water-worn ice, four and five feet above the 
water. In this case, however, they had no choice. 

The boats of the walrus hunters are strongly yet 
lightly built. They are bow-shaped at both ends; 5 
the stem and stern posts are made thick and strong 
in order to resist the blows of the ice, and the bow 
sheathed with zinc plates to prevent excessive chaf- 
ing. It is most important that they should be easy 
and quick in turning, and this quality is obtained by lo 
depressing the keel in the middle. They are painted 
red inside and white butside, so that they may not 
be conspicuous amongst ice, but the hunters stultify 
this idea to some extent by dressing themselves in 
dark colors. i.> 

The harpoon, the point and edges of which are 
ground and whetted to a razor-like sharpness, is a 
simple but very effective weapon. When thrust into 
a walrus or seal, a large outer barb " takes up " a 
loop of the tough hide, whilst a small inner fishhook jo 
barb prevents it from becoming disengaged, so that 
when once properly harpooned, it is seldom, if ever, 
that an animal escapes through the harpoon " draw- 
ing." The harpoon line consists of sixteen fathoms 
of two-inch tarred rope, very carefully made of the 25 
finest hemp, "soft laid"; each line is neatly coiled 
in a separate box placed beneath the forward thwart. 



121 

A boat's crew consists of four or five men, and the 
quickness with which they can turn their boat is 
greatly accelerated by their method of rowing and 
steering. Each man rows with a pair of oars, which 

6 he can handle much better than one long one when 
amongst ice. 

The harpooner, who commands the boat's crew, 
rows from the bow thwart, near the weapons and 
telescope, which he alone uses. It is he who searches 

10 for game, and decides on the method of attack when 
it is found. " No. 2," generally the strongest man 
in the boat, is called the "line man"; it is his duty 
to tend the line when a walrus is struck, and to 
assist the harpooner. 

15 In such a boat, then, one lovely September morn- 
ing, we are rowing easily back to the sloop, which is 
lying off Bird Bay, a small indentation in the east 
face of the northernmost point of Spitzbergen. The 
harpooner is balancing himself, one foot on the 

20 forward locker, and one on the thwart, examining 
through a telescope something which appears to be 
a lump of dirty ice, about 'half a mile away. Sud- 

. denly he closes his glass and seizes the oars. " There 
he is ! " he says, and without another word the boat 

25 is headed for the black mass. 

Now we are within a couple of hundred yards, and 
each man crouches in the bottom of the boat, the 



122 

ft 

harpooner still in the bow, his eyes intently fixed 
upon the walrus. Suddenly the walrus raises his 
head, and we are motionless. It is intensely still, 
and the scraping of a piece of ice along the boat 
seems like the roar of a railway train passing over- 6 
head on some bridge. Down goes the head, and we 
glide forward again. The walrus is imeasy; again 
and again he raises his head and looks round with a 
quick motion, but we have the sun right at our back, 
and he never notices us. lo 

At last we are within a few feet, and with a shout 
of "Wake up, old boy!" which breaks the stillness 
like a shot, the harpooner is on his feet, his weapon , 
clasped in both hands above his head. As the walrus 
plunges into the sea, the iron is buried in his side, i5 
and, with a quick twist to prevent the head from 
slipping out of the same slit that it has cut in the 
thick hide, the handle is withdrawn and thrown into 
the boat. Bumping and scraping amongst the float- 
ing ice, we are towed along for about five minutes, 20 
^nd then stop as the wounded walrus comes to the 
surface to breathe. 

In the old days the lance would finish the busi- 
ness, but now it is the rifle. He is facing the boat; 
I sight for one of his eyes, and let him haVe both 25 
barrels, without much effect apparently, for away we 
rush for two or three minutes more, when he is up 



123 

again, still facing the boat. He seems to care no 
more for the solid "Express" bullets than if they 
were peas ; but he is slow this time, and, as he turns 
to dive, exposes the fatal spot at the back of the 

5 head, and dies. 

Few men are likely ever to forget the first occa- 
sion on which they found themselves amongst a herd 
of walrus in the water. Scores of fierce-looking 
heads — for the long tusks, small bloodshot eyes, and 

10 moustache on the upper lip (every bristle of which is 
as thick as a crow quill) give the walrus an expres- 
sion of ferocity — gaze, perhaps in unbroken silence, 
from all sides upon the boat. See ! the sun glints 
along a hundred wet backs, and they are gone. 

15 Away you row at racing speed to where experi- 
ence tells yoQ they will rise again. " Here they are! 
Take that old one with long tusks first ! " A couple 
of quick thrusts, right and left, and away you go 
again, fast to two old fellows that will want a good 

20 deal of attention before you can cut their tusks out. 
Indeed, unless one has served hh apprenticeship, he 
had better not meddle with the harpoon at all. The 
old skippers and harpooners can spin many a yarn 
of lost crews and boats gone under the ice through a 

25 fatal moment's delay in cutting free from the diving 
walrus. 

— From ^^Big Game Shooting,^' 



124 
THE DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII. 

I. HISTORY. 

Volcanoes can never be trusted. No one knows 
when one will break out, or what it will do; and 
those who live close to them — as the city of Naples 
is close to Mount Vesuvius — must not be astonished 
if they are blown up or swallowed, as that great and 5 
beautiful city of Naples may be without a warning, 
any day. 

For what happened to that same Mount Vesuvius 
about eighteen hundred years ago in the old Roman 
times ? For ages and ages it had been lying quiet, 10 
like any other hill. Beautiful cities were built at its 
foot — cities filled with people who were as hand- 
some and as comfortable and, I am afraid, as wicked 
as any people ever were on earth. Fair gardens, 
vineyards, and olive yards covered the mountain is 
slopes. It was held to be one of the Paradises of 
the world. 

As for the mountain's being a volcano, who ever 
thought of that? To be sure, the top of it was 
a great round crater, or cup, a mile or more across, 20 
and a few hundred yards deep. But that was all 
overgrown with bushes and wild vines full of deer 
and other wild animals. What sign of fire was there 
in that ? To be sure, also, there was an ugly place 



125 

below, by the seashore, where smoke and brunstone 
came out of the ground ; and a lake called Avernus, 
over which poisonous gases hung. But what of 
that^ It had never harmed any one, and how 

5 could it harm them ? 

So they all lived on, merrily and happily enough, 
till the year a.d. 79. At that time there was sta- 
tioned in the Bay of Naples a Roman admiral, called 
Pliny, who was also a very studious and learned 

10 man, and author of a famous old book on natural 
history. He was staying on shore with his sister; 
and as he sat in his study, she called him out to 
see a strange cloud which had been hanging for some 
time over the top of Mount Vesuvius. It was in 

16 shape just like a pine tree ; not, of course, like the 
pines which grow in this country, but like an Italian 
stone pine, with a long straight stem and a flat 
parasol-shaped top . 

Sometimes it was blackish, sometimes spotted ; 

20 and the good Admiral Pliny, who was always curi- 
ous about natural science, ordered his rowboat and 
went away across the bay to see what it could be. 
Earthquake shocks had been very common for the 
last few days, but I do not suppose that Pliny 

26 thought that the earthquakes and the cloud had 
anything to do with each other. However, he soon 
found* out that they had ; and to his cost.- When 



126 

he was near the opposite shore, some of the sailors 
met him and begged him to turn back. Cinders and 
pumice stones were falling down from the sky, and 
flames were breaking out of the mountain above. 
But Pliny would go on : he said that if people were 5 
in danger it was his duty to help them ; and that he 
must see this strange cloud, and note down the differ- 
ent shapes into which it changed. 

But the hot ashes fell faster and faster; the sea 
ebbed out suddenly, and almost left them on the lo 
beach ; and Pliny turned away towards a place called 
Stabiae, to the house of an old friend who was just 
going to escape in a boat. Brave Pliny told him not 
to be afraid ; ordered his bath like a true Roman 
gentleman, and then went in to dinner with a cheer- 15 
ful face. Flames came down from the mountain, 
nearer and nearer as the night drew on ; but Pliny 
persuaded his friend that they were only fires in 
some villages from which the peasants had fled; 
and then went to bed and slept soundly. 20 

However, in the middle of the night, they found 
the courtyard being fast filled with cinders, and 
if they had not awakened the Admiral in time, he 
would never have been able to get out of the 
house. 25 

The earthquake shocks grew stronger and fiercer, 
till the house was ready to fall ; and Pliny and his 



128 

friend, and the sailors and the slaves, all fled into 
the open fields, having pillows over their heads to 
prevent their being beaten down. By this time, 
day had come, but not the dawn : for it was still 
pitch dark. They went down to their boats upon 5 
the shore ; but the sea raged so horribly that there 
was no getting on board of them. 

Then Pliny grew tired and made his men spread 
a sail for him that he might lie down upon it. 
But there came down upon them a rush of flames lo 
and a strong smell of sulphur, and all ran for 
their lives. 

Some of the slaves tried to help the Admiral ; but 
he sank down again, overpowered by the brimstone 
fumes, and so was left behind. When they came is 
back again, there he lay dead ; but with his clothes 
in order, and his face as quiet as if he had been only 
sleeping. And that was the end of a brave and 
learned man, a martyr to duty and to the love of 
science. 20 

But what was going on in the meantime ? Under 
clouds of ashes, cinders, mud, lava, three of those 
happy cities — Herculaneum, Pompeii, Stabiae — were 
buried at once. They were buried just as the peo- 
pie had fled from them, leaving the" furniture and 25 
the earthenware, often even jewels and gold behind, 
and here and there a human being who had not had 



129 

time to escape from the dreadful rain of ashes and 
dust. 

Tlie ruins of Herculaneum and Pompeii have been 
dug into since, and partly uncovered ; and the paint- 

5 ings, especially in Pompeii, are found upon the walls 
still fresh, preserved from the air by the ashes which 
have covered them in. At Naples there is a famous 
museum containing the curiosities which have been 
dug out of the ruined cities ; and one can walk along 

10 the streets in Pompeii and see the wheel tracks in 
the pavement along which carts and chariots rolled 
two thousand years ago. 

And what had become of Vesuvius, the treacher- 
ous mountain ? Half, or more than half, of the side 

15 of the old crater had been blown away ; and what 
was left, which is now called the Monte Somma, 
stands in a half circle round the new cone and the 
new crater which is burning at this very day. True, 
after that eruption which killed Pliny, Vesuvius fell 

20 asleep again, and did not awake for one hundred and 
thirty-four years, and then again for two hundred 
and sixty-nine years ; but it has been growing more 
and more restless as the ages have passed on, and 
now hardly a year passes without its sending out 

2j smoke and stones from its crater, and streams of 
lava from its sides. 

— From " Madam How and Lady Why,^ hy Charles Kingsley. 

9CH. READ, V, — 9 




II. KOMANCE, 

Tlie most popular historical romance 
n tlie English language is "The Last 
Days of Pompeii," by Sir Edward 
Bulwer Lytton. It was first pub- 
lished in 1834, and is a narrar 5 
tive depicting life and man- 
ners during the last years of 
the doomed city. The descrip- 
tion of the grand catastrophe 
is a subject which called forth id 
all the brilliant powers of the 
Bi.Edw«dMw.rLytt«». author. As a piece of word- 

painting it has seldom been surpassed. 

The cloud which had scattered so deep a murki- 
ness over the day had now settled into a solid and is 
impenetrable mass. But in proportion as the black- 
ness gathered, did the lightnings around Vesuvius 
increase in their vivid and scorching glare. Nor was 
their horrible beauty confined to the usual hues of 
fire ; no rainbow ever rivaled their varying and prodi- 30 
gal dyes. Now brightly blue as the most azure depths 
of a southern sky, — now of a livid and snake-like 
green, darting restlessly to and fro as the folds of an 
enormous serpent, — now of a lurid and intolerable 
crimson, gushing forth through the columns oE" 



131 

smokej far. and wide, and lighting up the whole 

city from arch to arch — then suddenly dying into 

a sickly paleness, like the ghost of their own life ! 

In the pauses of the showers you heard the 

5 rumbling of the earth beneath, and the groaning 
waves of the tortured sea ; or, lower still, and 
audible but to the watch of in tensest fear, the 
grinding and hissing murmur of the escaping gases 
through the chasms of the distant mountain. Some- 

10 times the cloud appeared to break from its solid 
mass, and, by the lightning to assume quaint and 
vast mimicries of human or of monster shapes, 
striding across the gloom, hurtling one upon the 
other, and vanishing swiftly into the abyss of shade ; 

15 so that, to the eyes and fancies of the affrighted 

wanderers, the vapors seemed like the bodily forms 

of gigantic foes — the agents of terror and of death. 

The ashes in many places were already knee-deep ; 

and the boiling showers which came from the steam- 

20 ing breath of the volcano forced their way into the 
houses, bearing with them a strong and suffocating 
vapor. In some places, immense fragments of rock, 
hurled upon the house roofs, bore down along the 
streets masses of confused ruin, yet more and more, 

25 with every hour, obstructed the way ; and as the 
day advanced, the motion of the earth was more 
sensibly felt — the footing seemed to slide and creep 





i 
}' 


,-■-^^■^7, - 


i 



133 

— nor could chariot or litter be kept steady even on 
the most level ground. 

Sometimes the huger stones, striking against each 
other as they fell, broke into countless fragments, 

5 emitting sparks of fire, which caught whatever was 
combustible within their reach ; and along the plains 
beyond the city the darkness was now terribly re- 
lieved, for several houses and even vineyards had 
been set on flames; and at various intervals the 

10 fires rose sullenly and fiercely against the solid 
gloom. To add to this partial relief of the dark- 
ness, the citizens had, here and there, in the more 
public places, such as the porticoes of temples and 
the entrances to the forum, endeavored to place 

15 rows of torches; but these rarely continued long; 
the showers and the winds extinguished them, and 
the sudden darkness into which their sudden birth 
was converted had something in it doubly terrible 
and doubly impressing on the impotence of human 

20 hopes, the lesson of despair. 

Frequently, by the momentary light of these 
torches, parties of fugitives encountered each other, 
some hurrying towards the sea, others flying from 
the sea back to the land. The whole ^ elements of 

26 civilization were broken up. Ever and anon, by 
the flickering lights, you saw the thief hastening 
by the most solemn authorities of the law, laden 



134 

I 

with the produce of his sudden gains. If, in the 
darkness, wife was separated from husband, or par- 
ent from child, vain was the hope of reunion. Each 
hurried blindly and confusedly on. Nothing in all 
the various and complicated machinery of social life s 
was left save the primal law of self-preservation. 

Through this awful scene did Glaucus wade his 
way, accompanied by lone and the blind girl. Sud- 
denly, a rush of hundreds, in their path to the sea, 
swept by them. Nydia was torn from the side of lo 
Glaucus, who with lone was borne rapidly onward ; 
and when the crowd (whose forms they saw not, so 
thick was the gloom) were gone, Nydia was still sepa- 
rated from their side. Glaucus shouted her name. 
No answer came. They retraced their steps, — inis 
vain : they could not discover her, — it was evident 
she had been swept along some other direction by 
the human current. Their friend, their preserver 
was lost ! And hitherto Nydia had been their guide. 
Her blindness rendered the scene familiar to her 20 
alone. Accustomed, through a perpetual night, to 
thread the windings of the city, she had led them un- 
erringly towards the seashore, by which they had re- 
solved to hazard an escape. Now, which way could 
they wend ? All was rayless to them — a maze with- 
out a clue. Wearied, despondent, bewildered, they, 
however, passed along, the ashes falling upon their^ 



136 

heads, the fragmentary stones dashing up in sparkles 
before their feet. 

Advancing, as men grope for escape in a dungeon, 
they continued their uncertain way. At the mo- 

5 ments when the volcanic lightnings lingered over 
the streets, they were enabled, by that awful light, 
to steer and guide their progress : yet, little did the 
view it presented to them cheer or encourage their 
path. In parts where the ashes lay dry and un- 

10 mixed with the boiling torrents, cast upward from 
the mountain at capricious intervals, the surface of 
the earth presented a leprous and ghastly white. 
In other places, cinder and rock lay matted in 
heaps. 

15 The groans of the dying were broken by wild 
shrieks of women's terror — now near, now distant 
— which, when heard in the utter darkness, were 
rendered doubly appalling by the sense of helpless- 
ness and the uncertainty of the perils around ; and 

20 clear and distinct through all were the mighty and 
various noises from the Fatal Mountain ; its rushing 
winds ; its whirling torrents ; and, from time to 
time, the burst and roar of some more fiery and 
fierce explosion. 

25 Suddenly the place became lighted with an intense 
and lurid glow. Bright and gigantic through the 
darkness, which closed around it like the walls of 



136 

hell, the mountain shone — a pile of fire. Its sum- 
mit seemed riven in two ; or rather, above its sur- 
face there seemed to rise two monster shapes, each 
confronting each, as Demons contending for a World. 
These were of one deep blood-red hue of fire, which 5 
lighted up the whole atmosphere far and wide ; but 
below, the nether part of the mountain was still dark 
and shrouded, save in three places, adown which 
flowed, serpentine and irregular, rivers of the molten 
lava. Darkly red through the profound gloom of 10 
their banks, they flowed slowly on, as towards the 
devoted city. Over the broadest there seemed to 
spring a cragged and stupendous arch, from which, 
as from the jaws of hell, gushed the sources of the 
stupendous Phlegethon. And through the stilled air 15 
was heard the rattling of the fragments of rock, 
hurling one upon another as they were borne down 
the fiery cataracts — darkening, for one instant, the 
spot where they fell, and suffused the next in the 
burnished hues of the flood along which they floated. 20 

Glaucus turned in awe, caught lone in his arms, 
and fled along the street, that was now intensely 
luminous. But suddenly a duller shade fell over the 
air. Instinctively he turned to the mountain, and 
behold ! one of the two gigantic crests, into which 
the summit had been divided, rocked and wavered to 
and fro ; and then, with a sound, the mightiness a 



137 

which no language can describe, it fell from its 
burning base, and rushed, an avalanche of fire, down 
the sides of the mountain. At the same instant 
gushed forth a volume of blackest smoke — rolling 

5 on, over air, sea, and earth. 

Another — and another — and another shower of 
ashes, far more profuse than before, scattered fresh 
desolation along the streets. Darkness once more 
wrapped them as a veil ; and Glaucus, his bold heart 

10 at last quelled and despairing, sank beneath the 
cover of an arch, and, clasping lone to his heart, 
resigned himself to die. 

Meanwhile Nydia, when separated by the throng 
from Glaucus and lone, had in vain endeavored to 

15 regain them. In vain she raised that plaintive cry 
so peculiar to the blind; it was lost amidst a thou- 
sand shrieks of more selfish terror. Again and again 
she returned to the spot where they had been divided 
— to find her companions gone, to seize every f ugi- 

20 tive — to inquire of Glaucus — to be dashed aside 
in the impatience of distraction. Who in that hour 
spared one thought to his neighbor ? 

At length it occurred to Nydia that, as it had been 
resolved to seek the seashore for escape, her most 

^ probable chance of rejoining her companions would 
})e to persevere in that direction. Guiding her steps, 
then, by the staff which she always carried, she con- 



138 

tinued to avoid the masses of ruin which incumbered 
the path, and to take the nearest direction to the 
seaside. 

She had gone some distance toward the seashore, 
when she chanced to hear from one of the fugitives 5 
that Glaucus was resting beneath the arch of the 
forum. She at once turned her back on the sea, 
and retraced her steps to the city. She gained the 
forum — the arch; she stooped down — she felt 
around — she called on the name of Glaucus. 10 

A weak voice answered, ^' Who calls on me ? Is 
it the voice of the Shades ? Lo ! I am prepared ! " 

" Arise ! follow me ! Take my hand ! Glaucus, 
thou shalt be saved ! " 

In wonder and sudden hope, Glaucus arose. 15 
" Nydia still ! Ah ! thou, then, art safe ! " 

The tender joy of his voice pierced the heart of 
the poor Thessalian, and she blessed him for his 
thought of her. 

Half-leading, half-carrying lone, Glaucus followed 20 
his guide. After many pauses they gained the sea, 
and joined a group, who, bolder than the rest, re- 
solved to hazard any peril rather than continue in 
such a scene. In darkness they put forth to sea; 
but, as they cleared the land and caught new aspects 25 
of the mountain, its channels of molten fire threw a 
partial redness over the waves. 



139 

Utterly exhausted and worn out, lone slept on the 
breast of Glaucus, and Nydia lay at his feet. Mean- 
while the showers of dust and ashes, still borne aloft, 
fell into the wave, and scattered their snows over 

6 the deck. Far and wide, borne by the winds, those 
showers descended upon the remotest climes, star- 
tling even the swarthy African, and whirled along 
the antique soil of Syria and Egypt. 

And meekly, softly, beautifully dawned at last 

10 the light over the trembling deep, — the winds were 
sinking into rest, — the foam died from the glowing 
azure of that delicious sea. Around the east, their 
mists caught gradually the rosy hues that heralded 
the morning. Light was about to resume her reign. 

16 Yet, still, dark, and massive in the distance lay the 
broken fragments of the destroying cloud, from 
which red streaks, burning more and more dimly, 
betraj^ed the yet rolling fires of the mountain of the 
" Scorched Fields." The white walls and gleaming 

20 columns that had adorned the lovely coasts were no 
more. Sullen and dull were the shores so lately 
crested by the cities of Herculaneum and Pompeii. 
The darlings of the Deep were snatched from her 
embrace. Century after century shall the mighty 

25 Mother stretch forth her azure arms, and know 
them not — moaning round the sepulchers of the 
Lost ! 




THE STRANGER ON THE SILL. 

Between broad fields of wheat and com 
Is the lowly home where I was born ; 
The peach tree leans against the wall, 
And the woodbine wanders over all ; 
There is the shaded doorway still, 
But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill. 



There is the barn — and, as of yore, 

I can smell the hay from the open door, 

And see the busy swallows throng, 

And hear the pewee's mournful song ; 

But the stranger comes — oh ! painful proof - 

His sheaves are piled to the heated roof. 



141 



There is the orchard — the very trees 
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease, 
And watched the shadowy moments run 
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun ; 
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air, 
But the stranger's children are swinging there. 

Oh, ye who daily cross the sill. 

Step lightly, for I love it still ; 

And when you crowd the old barn eaves, 

Then think what countless harvest sheaves 

Have passed within that scented door 

To gladden eyes that are no more. 

Deal kindly with these orchard trees ; 
And when your children crowd their knees 
Their sweetest fruit they shall impart. 
As if old memories stirred their heart; 
To youthful sport still leave the swing. 
And in sweet reverence hold the spring. 

The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds. 

The meadows with their lowing herds. 

The woodbine on the cottage wall — 

My heart still lingers with them all. 

Ye strangers on my native sill. 

Step lightly, for I love it still. 

— Thomas Buchanan Read, 



142 



OUR COUNTRY. 

Sweet clime of my kindred, blest land of my birth ! 
The fairest, the dearest, the brightest on earth ! 
Where'er I may roam — howe'er blest I may be. 
My spirit instinctively turns unto thee ! 

I. WHAT IS OUR COUNTRY? 

We cannot honor our country with too deep a 
reverence ; we cannot love her with an affection too 
pure and fervent; we cannot serve her with an 
energy of purpose or a faithfulness of zeal too 
steadfast and ardent. And what is our country? 5 
It is not the East, with her hills and her valleys, 
with her countless sails, and the rocky ramparts of 
her shores. It is not the North, with her thousand 
villages and her harvest home, with her frontiers of 
the lakes and the ocean. It is not the West, with lo 
her forest sea and her inland isles, with her luxuriant 
expanses, clothed in the verdant corn ; with her 
beautiful Ohio and her verdant Missouri. Nor is it 
yet the South, opulent in the mimic snow of the 
cotton, in the rich plantations of the rustling cane, i5 
and in the golden robes of the rice field. What are 
these hut the sister families of one greater ^ better y holier 
family, our country ? 

— Thomas Ghrimke. 



143 



II. LIBERTY AND UNION. 

I profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept 
steadily in view the prosperity and the honor of the 
»vhole country, and the preservation of the Federal 
Jnion. I have not allowed myself to look beyond 
he Union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark 
•ecess behind ; I have not coolly weighed the chances 
)f preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us 
ogether shall be broken asunder ; I have not accus- 
omed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion, 
o see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom 
ilie depths of the abyss below; nor could I regard 
aim as a safe counselor in the affairs of this govern- 
ment, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on 
considering, not how the Union should be preserved, 
but how tolerable might be the condition of the 
People when it shall be broken up and destroyed. 

While the Union lasts we have high, exciting, 
;ratifying prospects spread out before us, for us 
tid our children. Beyond that, I seek not to 
enetrate the veil. God grant that in my day, at 
^ast, that curtain may not rise ! God grant that on 
ay vision never may be opened what lies behind ! 

When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the 
^st time, the sun in heaven, may I not see him shin- 
tig on the broken and dishonored fragments of a 
►nee glorious Union ; on States dissevered, discordant. 



144 

belligerent ; on a land rent with civil feuds, or 
drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood. Let their 
last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the 
gorgeous ensign of the Republic, now known and 
honored throughout the earth, still full high ad- s 
vanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their 
original luster, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor 
a single star obscured ; bearing for its motto no such 
miserable interrogatory as, "What is all this worth?" 
nor those other words of delusion and folly, " Liberty lo 
first, and Union afterwards " ; but everywhere spread 
all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its 
ample folds as they float over the sea, and over the 
land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, 
that other sentiment, dear to every true Americans 
heart, " Liberty and Union, now and forever, one 
and inseparable." 

III. OUR SACRED OBLIGATIONS. 

Let the sacred obligations which have devolved on 
this generation, and on us, sink deep into our hearts. 
Those are daily dropping from among us who estab- 20 
lished our liberty and our government. The great 
trust now descends to new hands. 

We can win no laurels in a war for independence. 
Earlier and worthier hands have gathered them all. 
Nor are there places for us by the side of Solon, and 23 



146 

Alfred, and other founders of states. Our fathers 
have filled them. But there remains to us a great 
duty of defense and preservation ; and there is 
opened to us, also, a noble pursuit, to which the 

5 spirit of the times strongly invites us. Our proper 
business is improvement. Let our age be the age 
of improvement. 

In a day of peace, let us advance the arts of peace 
and the works of peace. Let us develop the re- 

10 sources of our land, call forth its powers, build up 

its institutions, promote all its great interests, and 

see whether we, also, in our day and generation, may 

not perform something worthy to be remembered. 

Let us cultivate a true spirit of union and harmony. 

15 In pursuing the great objects which our condition 
points out to us, let us act under a settled conviction, 
and an habitual feeling, that these twenty-four states 
are one country. Let our conceptions be enlarged to 
the circle of our duties. Let us extend our ideas 

20 over the whole of the vast field in which we are 
called to act. Let our object be, our country, our 
whole country, and nothing but our country. And, 
by the blessing of God, may that country itself 
become a vast and splendid monument, not of op- 

25 pression and terror, but of wisdom, of peace, and 
of liberty, upon which the world may gaze with 
admiration forever. —Daniel Webster, 

8CH. READ. V. — 10 



A LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

" The Sketch Book " is a collection of short tales, 
sketches, and essays, written by Washington Irving, 
,^, and published in 1820. Most of the 

sketches are descriptive of English 
manners and scenery, but the popu- j 
larity of the book in this country 
is chiefly due to tw^o '-veil- 
known stories of Amevican 
life, "Rip Van Winkle" and 
"A Legend of Sleepy Hollow." lo 
The scenes of both stories are 
located in the valley of the 
Hudson River, not far from 
wuhiigton irriij New York. They are most 

picturesquely told, and rank high among the best i5 
productions of their kind in American literature. 
Here is the " Legend of Sleepy Hollow," which we 
have abridged in order to adapt it to the readers of 
this volume : — 

r. THE SCHOOLMASTER. 

In a remote period of American history, there so 
lived in Sleepy Hollow a worthy man whose name 
was Ichabod Crane. He sojourned, or, as he ex- 
pressed it, '* tarried " in that quiet little valley for 
the purpose of instructing the children of the vicin- 




147 

ity . He was a native of Connecticut. He was tall, 
but very lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and 
legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, 
and feet that might have served as shovels. His 

5 head was small, with huge ears, large glassy eyes, 
and a long snipe nose. To see him striding along 
the Crest of a hill on a windy day, with his ill-fitting 
clothes fluttering about him, one might have mistaken 
him for some scarecrow escaped from a cornfield. 

10 His schoolhouse was a low building of one large 
room, rudely built of logs. It stood in a rather 
lonely but pleasant place, just at the foot of a woody 
hill, with a brook running close by, and a birch tree 
growing near one end of it. From this place of 

16 learning the low murmur of children's voices, con- 
ning over their lessons, might be heard on a drowsy 
summer day like the hum of a beehive. Now and 
then this was interrupted by the stern voice of the 
master, or perhaps by the appalling sound of a birch 

20 twig, as some loiterer was urged along the flowery 
path of knowledge. 

When school hours were over, the teacher forgot 
that he was the master, and was even the companion 
and playmate of the older boys; and on holiday 

25 afternoons, he liked to go home with some of the 
smaller ones who happened to have pretty sisters, or 
mothers noted for their skill in cooking. Indeed, it 



148 



was a wise thing for him to keep on good terms with 
his pupils. He earned so little by teaching school, 
that he would scarcely have had enough to eat, had 
he not, according to country custom, boarded at the 
houses of the children whom he instructed. With » 
these he lived, by turns, a week at a time, 
thus going the rounds of the neighbor- 
hood, with all his worldly goods tied 
up in a cotton handkerchief. 

He had many wa3's of u 

making himself both useful 

and agreeable. He helped 

the farmers in the lighter 

labors of their farms, raked 

the hay at harvest time, u 

- - . mended the fences, took 

llAl^Mng^gg^^lV'' the horses to water, drove 

^'"^IP^PmI^ the cows from pasture, and 

* cut wood for the winter 

lobaliod OtiM. 

fire. He found favor in a 
the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, par- 
ticularly the youngest ; and he would often sit with 
a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot 
for whole hours together. 

He was a man of some importance among the 25 
women of the neighborhood, being looked upon as a 
kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage of finer tastes 




149 

and better manners than the rough young men who 
had been brought up in the country. He was always 
welcome at the tea table of a farmhouse ; and his 
presence was almost sure to bring out an extra dish 

5 of cakes or sweetmeats, or the parade of a silver tea- 
pot. He was happy, too, in the smiles of all the 
young ladies. He would walk with them in the 
churchyard, between services on Sundays ; gathering 
grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun 

10 the surrounding trees ; or sauntering with a whole 

bevy of them along the banks of the adjacent mill 

pond; while the bashful country youngsters hung 

sheepishly back and hated him for his fine manners. 

Another of his sources of pleasure was to pass long 

16 winter evenings with the wives of the Dutch farm- 
ers, as they sat spinning by the fire with a long row 
of apples roasting and sputtering along the hearth. 
He listened to their wondrous tales of ghosts and 
goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and 

20 haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particu- 
larly of the headless horseman, or " Galloping Hes- 
sian of the Hollow," as they sometimes called him. 
And then he would entertain them with stories of 
witchcraft, and would frighten them with woeful 

25 speculations about comets and shooting stars, and by 
telling them that the world did really turn round, 
and that they were half the time topsy-turvy. 



150 

There was pleasure in all this while snugly cud- 
dling in the chimney corner of a room that was 
lighted by the ruddy glow from a crackling wood 
fire, and where no ghost dared show its face ; but it 
was a pleasure dearly bought by the terrors which 5 
would beset him during his walk homewards. How 
fearful were the shapes and shadows that fell across 
his way in the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy 
night ! How often was he appalled by some shrub 
covered with snow, which, like a sheeted specter, lo 
beset his very path ! How often did he shrink with 
curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the 
frosty crust beneath his feet, and dread to look over 
his shoulder lest he should behold some uncouth 
being tramping close behind him! and how often i5 
was he throAvn into complete dismay by some rush- 
ing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that 
it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly 
scourings ! 

II. THE INVITATION. 

On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive 20 
mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence 
he watched the doings of his little school. In his 
hand he held a ferule, that scepter of despotic 
power; the birch of justice reposed on three nails 
behind the stool, a constant terror to evil doers; 25 
while on the desk were sundry contraband articles 



161 

taken from idle urchins, such as half-eaten apples, 
popguns, whirligigs, and fly cages. His scholars 
were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly 
whispering behind them with one eye kept upon 

5 the master, and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned 
throughout the schoolroom. 

This stillness was suddenly interrupted by the ap- 
pearance of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, 
who, mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half- 

10 broken colt, came clattering up to the schoolhouse 
door. He brought an invitation to Ichabod to attend 
a merrymaking, or " quilting frolic," to be held that 
evening at the house of Mynheer Van Tassel ; and 
having delivered his message, he dashed over the 

15 brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, 
full of the importance and hurry of his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet 
schoolroom. The scholars were hurried through 
their lessons. Those who were nimble skipped over 

20 half without being noticed ; and those who were slow 
were hurried along by a smart application of the rod. 
Then books were flung aside without being put away 
on the shelves ; inkstands were overturned, benches 
thrown down ; and the whole school was turned 

25 loose an hour before the usual time, the children 
yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at 
their early freedom. 



152 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra 
half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing his 
best and only suit of rusty black, and arranging his 
looks by a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up 
in the schoolhouse. That he might make his appear- 5 
ance at the party in the true style of a cavalier, 
he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom 
he was boarding, and, thus gallantly mounted, rode 
forth, like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. 
The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow lo 
horse, that had outlived almost everything but his 
viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a 
slender neck, and a head like a hammer. His mane 
and tail were tangled and knotted with burs. One 
eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, is 
but the other still gleamed with genuine wickedness. 
He must have had plenty of fire and mettle in his 
day, if we may judge from his name, which was 
Gunpowder. 

Ichabod was a rider suited for such a steed. He 20 
rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees 
nearly up to the pommel of the saddle ; his elbows 
stuck out like a grasshopper's; and as the horse 
jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike 
the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat 25 
rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip 
of forehead might be called; and the skirts of his 



158 



black coat fluttered out almost to the horse'3 tail. 
Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed 
as they shambled along the , 

highway; and it was alto- 
gether auch an apparition 
as is seldom to be met with 
in broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a 
fine autumnal day. The 

isky was clear and serene. 
The forests had put on 
their sober brown and yel- 
low, while some trees of 
the tenderer kind had been 

i nipped by the frost into 
brilliant dyes of orange, 
purple, and scarlet. Stream- 
ing files of wild ducks be- 
gan to make their appearance high in the air. The 

t bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves 
of beech and hickory, and the pensive whistle of the 
quail at intervals from the neighboring stubblefielda. 
The small birds fluttered, chirping and frolicking 
from bush to bush, and tree to tree, gay and happy 

s because of the plenty and variety around them. 
There were the twittering blackbirds, flying in sable 
clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his 




Iclikbod ud Oimpowdar. 



154 

crimson crest and splendid plumage; and the cedar 
bird, with its red-tipped wings and yellow-tipped 
tail; and the blue jay, in his gay, light-blue coat 
and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, , 
nodding and bowing, and pretending to be on good 5 
terms with every songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye 
ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly au- 
tumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples, 
— some still hanging on the trees, some gathered 10 
into baskets and barrels for the market, others 
heaped up in rich piles for the cider press. Farther 
on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its 
golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and 
holding out the promise of cakes and hasty pudding. 15 
There, too, were multitudes of yellow pumpkins 
turning up their yellow sides to the sun, and giving 
ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies. And 
anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breath- 
ing the odor of the beehive; and as he beheld them, 20 
he dreamed of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and 
garnished with honey, by the delicate little dimpled 
hand of Katrina, the daughter of Mynheer Van 
Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts 25 
and " sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the 
sides of a range of hills which look out upon some 



165 

of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The 
sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into the 
west. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, with- 
out a breath of air to move them. The horizon was 

5 of a fine, golden tint, changing gradually into a pure 
apple-green, and from that into the deep-blue of the 
midheaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody 
crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of 
the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and 

10 purple of their rocky sides. 



III. THE "QUILTING FROLIC." 

It was toward evening when Ichabod arrived at 
the castle of the Herr Van Tassel. He found it 
thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent 
country, — old farmers, in homespun coats and 

16 breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnifi- 
cent pewter buckles; their brisk little dames, in 
close-crimped caps, long-waisted gowns, homespun 
petticoats, wath scissors and pincushions, and gay 
calico pockets hanging on the outside ; buxom lasses, 

20 almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting 
where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white 
frock, showed signs of city innovations; the sons, 
in short, square-skirted coats with rows of huge brass 
buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion 

25 of the times, especially if an eel-skin could be had 



156 



for that purpose, it being esteemed as a potent nour- 
isher and strengthener of the hair. 

What a world of charms burst upon the gaze of 
my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van 
Tassel's mansion — the ample charms of a Dutch 5 
country tea table, in the sumptuous time of autumn ! 
Such heaped-up platters of cakes, of various and in- 
describable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch 
housewives ! There was the doughty doughnut, and 
the crisp, crumbling cruller ; sweet cakes and short 10 
cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole 
family of cakes ; and then there were apple pies, and 
peach pies, and pumpkin pies; and slices of ham 
and smoked beef; and dishes of preserved plums, 
and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to men- 15 
tion broiled shad and roasted chickens, together 
with bowls of milk and cream; all mingled, hig- 
gledy-piggledy, — with the motherly teapot sending 
up its clouds of vapor from the midst! I want 
breath and time to describe this banquet as I ought, 20 
and am too eager to get on with my story. Hap- 
pily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry, 
but did ample justice to every dainty. 

And now, supper being ended, the sound of music 
from the common room summoned to the dance. 25 
The musician was an old, gray-headed negro, who 
had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood 



167 

for more than half a century. His instrument was 
as old and battered as himself. The greater part of 
the time he scraped away on two or three strings, 
moving his head with every movement of the bow, 

5 and stamping his foot whenever a fresh couple were 
to start. 

Ichabod prided himself on his dancing. Not a 
limb, not a fiber about him was idle. How could 
the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated 

10 and joyous? And pretty Katrina Van Tassel, the 
lady of his heart, was his partner in the dance, smil- 
ing graciously in reply to all his gallant remarks. 
When the dance was over, Ichabod joined »> circle 
of the older folks, who, with Mynheer Van Tassel, 

16 sat smoking at one end of the piazza, and told 
stories of the war and wild and wonderful legends 
of ghosts and other supernatural beings. Some 
mention was made of a woman in white that 
haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was 

20 often heard to shriek on wintry nights before a 
storm, having perished there in the snow. The 
chief part of the stories, however, turned upon 
the favorite specter of Sleepy Hollow, the head- 
less horseman, who had been heard several times 

25 of late, patrolling the country. One man told how 
he had once met the horseman returning from a 
foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get 



158 



up behind him ; how they galloped over bush and 
brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the 
bridge by the church, when the horseman suddenly 
turned into a skeleton, threw him into the brook, 
and sprang away over the treetops with a clap of 6 
thimder, A wild, roystering young man, who was 
called Brom Bones, declared that the headless 
horseman was, after all, no rider compared with 
himself. He said that returning 
one night from the neighboring lo 
village of Sing Sing, he had been 
overtaken by this midnight trooper ; 
that he had offered to race with 
him for a bowl of punch, and 
would have won it, too, but just as is 
they came to the church bridge, 
the specter bolted and vanished in 
a flash of fire. 

The party now gradually broke 
up. The old farmers gathered 20 
together their families in their 
wagons, and were heard for some 
time rattling along the hollow 
roads, and over the distant hills. 
Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind as 
their favorite swains ; and their light-hearted laugh- 
ter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along 




Eatrina Tut iMleL 



159 

the silent woodlands, growing fainter and fainter 
till they gradually died away, and the late scene 
of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. 
Ichabod alone lingered behind, to have a parting 
5 word with the pretty Katrina. What he said to 
her, and what was her reply, I do not know. Some- 
thing, however, must have gone wrong ; for he sal- 
lied forth, after no great length of time, with an air 
quite desolate and chopf alien. 

IV. THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN. 

10 It was the very witching time of night that Icha- 
bod pursued his travel homewards. In the dead 
hush of midnight he could hear the barking of a 
dog on the opposite shore of the Hudson, but it was 
so vague and faint as only to give an idea of the 

15 distance between them. No signs of life occurred 
near, but now and then the chirp of a cricket, or 
perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog from a 
neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, 
and turning suddenly in his bed. 

20 All the stories that Ichabod had heard about 
ghosts and goblins, now came crowding into his 
mind. The night grew darker and darker. The 
stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driv- 
ing clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He 

25 had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, more- 



160 

over, approaching the very place where many of the 
scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the 
center of the road stood an enormous tulip tree, 
which towered like a giant above all the other trees 
of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. 6 
Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large as the 
trunks of ordinary trees, twisting down almost to 
the ground, and rising again into the air. 

As Ichabod approached this tree, he began to 
whistle. He thought his whistle was answered : it lo 
was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry 
branches. Coming a little nearer, he thought he 
saw something white hanging in the midst of the 
tree. He paused, and ceased whistling, but, on look- 
ing more narrowly, perceived that it was a place is 
where the tree had been struck by lightning, and 
the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a 
groan. His teeth chattered, and his knees smote, 
against the saddle. It was but the rubbing of one 
huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about 20 
by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new 
perils lay before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small 
brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and 
thickly wooded glen. A few rough logs laid side by 25 
side served for a bridge over this stream. To pass 
tliis bridge was the severest trial; for it was here 



161 

that the unfortunate Andre had been captured, and 
under covert of the thicket of chestnuts and vines 
by the side of the road, had the sturdy yeomen, who 
surprised him, lain concealed. The stream has ever 
6 since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful 
are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass 
it alone after dark. 

As Ichabod approached the stream his heart began 
to thump. He gave his horse half a score of kicks 
10 in the ribs, and tried to dash briskly across the 
bridge; but instead of starting forward, the per- 
verse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran 
broadside against the fence. Ichabod jerked the rein 
on the other side, and kicked lustily with the con- 
is trary foot. It was all in vain. His steed started, 
it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite 
side of the road into a thicket of brambles. The 
schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon 
the ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward but 
20 came to a stand just by the bridge with a sudden- 
ness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over 
his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by 
the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of 
Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the trees, he beheld 
25 something huge, black, and towering. It stirred 
not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some 
gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler. 

8CH. READ. V. — 11 



162 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his 
head with terror. What was to be done? Sum- 
moning up a show of courage, he called out in stam- 
mering accents, "Who are you?" He received no 
reply. He repeated his demand in a still more s 
agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once 
more he cudgeled the sides of Gunpowder, and, shut- 
ting his eyes, broke forth into a psalm tune. Just 
then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in 
motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, stood lo 
at once in the middle of the road. Though the 
night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the 
unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. 
He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, 
and mounted on a horse of powerful frame. He i5 
made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept 
aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the 
blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over 
his fright and waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange mid- 20 
night companion, and bethought himself of the ad- 
venture of Brom Bones and the headless horseman, 
now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him 
behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse 
to an equal pace. Ichabod drew up, and fell into 26 
a walk, thinking to lag behind; the other did the 
same. His heart began to sink within him. There 



163 

was something in the moody and dogged silence of 
his companion that was mysterious and appalling. 
It was soon fearfully accounted for. 

On mounting a rising ground, which brought the 

5 figure of his fellow-traveler in relief against the sky, 
Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he was 
headless ; but his horror was still more increased on 
observing that the head, which should have rested 
on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pom- 

lomel of his saddle. His terror rose to desperation. 
He rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gun- 
powder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give 
his companion the slip ; but the specter started full 
jump with him. Away then they dashed, through 

15 thick and thin ; stones flying, and sparks flashing, at 

every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in 

the air, as he stretched his long, lank body away 

over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off 

20 to Sleepy Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who seemed pos- 
sessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made 
an opposite turn, and plunged headlong down hill to 
the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow, 
shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, 

25 where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story ; 
and just beyond swells the green knoll on which 
stands the whitewashed church. 



164 

Just as he had got haKway through the hollow, the 
girths of the saddle gave way, and Ichabod felt it 
slipping from under him. He seized it by the pom- 
mel, and tried to hold it firm, but in vain. He had 
just time to save himself by clasping Gunpowder 5 
round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, 
and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. 
For a moment the terror of its owner's wrath passed 
across his mind, for it was his Sunday saddle ; but 
this was no time for petty fears. He had much 10 
ado to keep his seat, sometimes slipping on one 
side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted 
on the high ridge of his horse's backbone with a 
violence that was far from pleasant. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with 15 
the hope that the church bridge was at hand. " If 
I can but reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, " I 
am safe." Just then he heard the black steed pant- 
ing and blowing close behind him. He even fancied 
that he felt his hot breath. Another kick in the 20 
ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; 
he thundered over the resounding planks ; he gained 
the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look 
behind to see if his pursuer should vanish in a 
flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the 26 
goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act 
of hurling his head at him. Ichabod tried to dodge 



166 

the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his 
cranium with a tremendous crash. He was tumbled 
headlong into the dust ; and Gunpowder, the black 
steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind. 

6 The next morning the old horse was found without 
his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly 
cropping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did 
not make his appearance at breakfast. Dinner hour 
came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the 

10 schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the 
brook; but i;io schoolmaster. An inquiry was set 
on foot, and after much investigation they came 
upon his traces. In one part of the road by the 
church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt. 

15 The tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, 
and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the 
bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part 
of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, 
was found the hat of the unfortunate -Ichabod, and 

20 close beside it a shattered pumpkin. The brook was 
searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not 
to be discovered. 

As Ichabod was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, 
nobody troubled his head any more about him. It 

25 is true, an old farmer, who went down to New 
York on a visit several years after, brought home the 
intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; that 



166 

he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of 
the goblin and the farmer whose horse he had ridden, 
and partly for other reasons ; that he had changed 
his quarters to a distant part of the country, had 
kept school and studied law at the same time, had 5 
written for the newspapers, and finally had been 
made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom 
Bones, too, who, shortly after the schoolmaster's 
disappearance, had married the blooming Katrina 
Van Tassel, was observed to look very knowing 10 
whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and 
always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention 
of the pumpkin, which led some to suppose that he 
knew more about the matter than he chose to tell. 



-•o^Ko^ 



THE MARINER'S DREAM. 

In slumbers pf midnight the sailor boy lay ; 

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind ; 
But, watchworn and weary, his cares flew away. 

And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 

He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers. 
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; 

While Memory stood sideways, half covered with 
flowers. 
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 



167 

Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, 
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise : 

Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, 
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch. 
And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the 
wall; 

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch. 
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ; 

His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear ; 
And the lips of the boy in a love kiss unite 

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds 
dear. 

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast ; 

Joy quickens his pulses — all hardships seem o'er, 
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest : 

" God ! thou hast blessed me ; I ask for no 



more." 



Ah ! what is that flame which now bursts on his eye ? 

Ah ! what is that sound which now 'larums his ear ? 

'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting death in the 

sky! 

'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the 

sphere ! 



168 

He springs from his hammock — he flies to the deck ! 

Amazement confronts him with images dire ; 
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck ; 

The masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on 
fire ! 

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell ; 

In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save; 
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, 

And the death angel flaps his broad wing o'er the 
wave ! 

sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight ! 

In darkness dissolves the gay frost work of bliss. 
Where now is the picture that Fancy touched 
bright — 
Thy parents' fond pressure, and Love's honeyed 
kiss? 

sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again 

Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ; 

Unblessed, and unhonored, down deep in the main 
Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. 

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, 
And still the viist waters above thee shall roll ; 

Kart h loses thy pattern for ever and aye : — 
sailor boy ! si\ilor boy ! peace to thy soul ! 

— WlUiam Dimand, 



169 



THE SANDS O' DEE. 

" Mary, go and call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home. 
And call the cattle home, 
Across the sands o' Dee ! " 
The western wind was wild and dank with foam, 
And all alone went she. 

The creeping tide came up along the sand. 
And o'er and o'er the sand, 
And round and round the sand, 
As far as eye could see. 
The rolling mist came down and hid the land — 
And never home came she. 

" Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — 
A tress of golden hair, 
A drowned maiden's hair, 
Above the nets at sea?" 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
Among the stakes on Dee. 



They brought her in across the rolling foam. 
The cruel crawling foam. 
The cruel hungry foam. 
To her grave beside the sea. 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home. 
Across the sands o' Dee. —Charles Kingsley. 



170 
THE INVENTION OF PRINTING. 

I. BLOCK BOOKS. 

Six hundred years ago every book was written by 
hand; for the art of printing was then unknown. 
If there were pictures, they were drawn with a pen 
or painted with a brush. It required a great deal 
of labor and time to make a book ; and when it was s 
finished, it was so costly that only a very rich person 
could afford to own it. 

There were no bookstores such as we have now, and 
books were very few. JBut in the great schools and 
large monasteries there were men called scriptores, lo 
or copyists, whose business it was to make written 
copies of such works as were in demand. There 
were other men called illuminators who ornamented 
the books with beautiful initials and chapter head- 
ings, and sometimes encircled the pages with borders is 
made with ink of different colors. 

At last some copyist who had several copies to 
make of the same book thought of a new plan. 
He carved a copy of each page on a block of wood. 
If there was a picture, he carved that too, much in 20 
the same way that wood engravings are made now. 
When the block was finished, it was carefully wetted 
with a thin, inky substance ; then a sheet of paper 
was laid upon it and pressed down till an impression 



171 

of the carved block was printed upon it. Each page 
was treated in the same way, but the paper could be 
printed only on one side. When all were finished, 
the leaves were stitched together and made into a 

6 book. It was not as handsome a book as those writ- 
ten with pen and ink ; but, after the block had once 
been engraved, the copyist could make fifty copies of 
it in less time than he could make one by hand. 
Books made in this way were called block books. 

10 It required much time and a great deal of skill to 
engrave the blocks ; and so this method of printing 
never came into very general use. 

II. LAURENCE COSTER 

About the beginning of the fifteenth century there 
lived in the old Dutch town of Haarlem a man whose 

15 name was Laurence Jaonssen. This man was much 
looked up to by all his neighbors ; for he was honest 
and wealthy, and he had been in his younger days 
the treasurer of the town. He was the sacristan of 
the Church of St. Bavon, and for that reason he was 

20 called Laurence Coster, which means Laurence the 
Sacristan. As he grew old and gray, he became very 
quiet in his ways, and there was nothing that he 
liked so well as being alone, with the bright sun 
above him and the trees and flowers and birds all 

25 around him. 



172 

t 

Every afternoon, as soon as he had dmed, he threw 
his short black cloak over his shoulders, took his 
broad-brimmed hat from its peg, and with his staff 
in his hand sauntered out for a walk. Sometimes 
he strolled along the banks of the broad and sluggish s 
river, picking flowers as he went ; sometimes he ram- 
bled through the fields and came home by the great 
road which led around to the other side of the town. 
But he liked best to go out to the old forest which 
lay beyond the flat meadow lands a mile farther lo 
away. There the trees grew large and tall, and 
afforded a pleasant shelter on warm days from the 
sun, and in cooler weather from the keen winds that 
blow across the meadows from the sea. 

When tired of walking, Laurence Coster would 15 
often sit down on the spreading root of some old 
beech tree; and then, to pass away the time, he 
would split off a piece of the bark, and with his 
knife would shape it into one of the letters of the 
alphabet. This was an old habit of his — a habit 20 
which he had learned when he was a boy ; and 
afterwards, when he was just turning into man- 
hood, it had been no uncommon thing for him to 
stroll into the woods and carve upon the trees the 
name of a young maiden whom he knew. Now, 25 
old and gray and solemn, the habit still remained 
with him. He liked to sit and cut out alphabets for 



173 

t 

the amusement of his little grandchildren to whom 

he carried them. 

One^day, having shaped the letters with more care 

than usual, he wrapped them up in a piece of parch- 
5 ment that he had in his pocket. " The children will 

be delighted with these, I know," he said. 

When he reached home and opened the package, 

he was surprised to see the imprint of several of the 

letters very clear and distinct upon the parchment. 
10 The sap, running out of the green bark, had acted 

as ink on the face of the letters. This accident set 

him to thinking. 

He carved another set of letters with very great 

care, and then, dipping one side in ink, pressed them 
15 on a sheet of parchment. The result was a print, 

almost as good as the block pictures and block books 

which were sold in the shops, and were the only 

examples of printing then known. 

''1 really believe," said Laurence Coster, "that 
20 with enough of these letters I could print a book. 

It would be better than printing by the block method ; 

for I would not be obliged to cut a separate block 

for each page, but could arrange and rearrange the 

letters in any order that might be required." 
25 And so now, instead of idling his afternoons away, 

and instead of cutting letters merely for the children, 

he set earnestly to work to improve his invention. 



174 

He made a kind of ink that was thicker and more 
gluey than common ink, and not so likely to spread 
and leave an ugly blot. He carved a great. many 
letters of various sizes, and found that with his im- 
proved ink he could make clear, distinct impressions, 6 
and could print entire pages, with cuts and diagrams 
and fancy headings. 

After a while he thought of making the letters of 
lead instead of wood; and finally he found that a 
mixture of lead and tin was better than pure lead, lo 
because it was harder and more durable. And so, 
year after year, Laurence Coster toiled at the mak- 
ing of types and the printing of books. Soon his 
books began to attract attention, and as they were 
really better and cheaper than the block books, is 
there was much call for them. 

Some of the good people of Haarlem were greatly 
troubled because the old gentleman spent so much of 
his time at such work. 

" He is bewitched," said some. 20 

" He has sold himself to the evil one,'' said others. 

" No good thing will ever come out of this busi- 
ness," said they all. 

III. JOHN GUTENBERG. 

One day when Laurence Coster was making his 
first experiments in printing, a young traveler, with 25 



175 

a knapsack on his back and a staff in his hand, came 
trudging into Haarlem. 

" My name is John Gutenberg, and my home is at 
Mayence," he said to the landlord of the inn where 

5 he stopped. • 

" And pray what may be your business in our good 
city of Haarlem ? " asked the landlord. 

" I am trying to gain knowledge by seeing the 
world/' was the answer. " I have been to Rome 

10 and Venice and Genoa ; I have visited Switzerland 
and all the great cities in Germany ; and now I am 
on my way through Holland to France." 

" What is the most wonderful thing that you have 
seen in your travels ?" asked the landlord. 

15 " There is nothing more wonderful to me than the 
general ignorance of the people/' said Gutenberg. 
" They seem to know nothing about the country in 
which they live ; they know nothing about the peo- 
ples of other lands ; and, what is worse, they know 

20 nothing about the truths of religion. If there were 
only some way to make books more plentiful, so 
that the* common people could buy them and learn 
to read them, a great deal of this ignorance would be 
dispelled. Ever since I was a mere youth at school, 

25 this thought has been in my mind." 

" Well," said the landlord, " we have a man here 
in Haarlem who makes books ; and, although I know 



176 



nothing about them myself, I have been told that he 
makes them by a new method, and much faster and 
cheaper than they have ever been made before." 

"Who is this man? Tell me where I can find 
him ! " cried Gutenberg. 5 

" His name is Laurence Coster, and he lives in 
the big house which you see over there close by the 
market place. You -can find him at home at all 
hours of the day ; for, since he got into this mad 
way about printing, he never walks out." 10 

Gutenberg lost no time in making 
the acquaintance of Laurence Coster. 
Tlni kind old gentleman showed him 
his types, and told him all about 
his plans; and when he brought is 
out a Latin Grammar which 
he had just finished, Guten- 
berg was filled with wonder 
and delight. 

" This is what I have so 20 
long hoped for," he said. 
" Now knowledge ' will fly 
on the wings of truth to the uttermost parts of the 
earth ! " 

Many different stories have been told about the 26 
way in which Gutenberg set to work to improve 
the art of printing. One relates that, after liaving 




John Qatsnberg. 



177 

gained the confidence of Laurence Coster, he stole 
all his types and tools and carried them to Mayence, 
where he opened a workshop of his own. Another 
story is as follows : 

5 After seeing Laurence Coster's work, he was so 
impatient to be doing something of the kind himself 
that he left Haarlem. the next morning and hurried 
to Strasburg. There he shut himself up in a room 
which he rented, and set to work to carry out the 

10 plans which he had in mind. With a knife and 
some pieces of wood he made several sets of movable 
type, and arranging them in words and sentences, 
strung them together upon pieces of wire. In this 
way he was able to print more rapidly than by 

16 Laurence Coster's method, where each letter, or at 
most each word, was printed separately. 

He soon set up a shop in an old ruined monastery 
just outside of the town, and began work as a 
jeweler. He polished precious stones, and he dealt 

20 in mirrors which he mounted in frames of carved 
wood. He did this partly to earn a livelihood, and 
partly to conceal the greater projects which he had 
in hand. In a dark secluded corner of the mon- 
astery he fitted up another workshop where he could 

25 secretly carry on his experiments in printing. There, 
behind bolts and bars and a thick oaken door, he 
spent all of his spare time with his types. 

SCH. READ. V. — 12 



178 

Little by little, Gutenberg made improvements in 
his art. He invented methods for making letters 
of metal that were better than any that Laurence 
Coster had used. He learned how to mix inks of 
various colors. He made brushes and rollers for s 
inking the types; "forms" for keeping the letters 
together when arranged for printing ; and at last a 
press for bringing the paper into contact with the 
inked type. 

IV. THE TWO VOICES. 

Whether awake or asleep, John Gutenberg's mind lo 
was always full of his great invention. One night 
as he sat looking at a sheet that he had printed on 
his first press, he thought that he heard two voices 
whispering near him. One of the voices was soft 
and musical and very pleasant to hear; the other it 
was harsh and gruff and full of discordant tones. 
The gentle voice spoke first. 

''Happy, happy man!" it said. "Go on with 
your great work, and be not discouraged. In the 
ages to come, men of all lands will gain knowledge 20 
and become wise by means of your great invention. 
Books will multiply until they are within the reach 
of all classes of people. Every child will learn to 
read. And to the end of time, the name of John 
Gutenberg will be remembered." 25 



180 

Then the harsh voice spoke : " Beware ! beware ! 
and think twice of what you are doing. Evil as 
well as good will come from this invention upon 
which you have set your heart. Instead of being a 
blessing to mankind, it will prove to be a curse. 5 
Pause and consider before you place in the hands of 
sinful and erring men another instrument of evil." 

Gutenberg's mind was filled with distress. He 
thought of the fearful power which the art of print- 
ing would give to wicked men to corrupt and debase 10 
their fellow-men. He leaped to his feet, he seized 
his hammer, and had almost destroyed his types and 
press when the gentle voice spoke again, and in 
accents loud enough to cause him to pause. 

"Think a moment," it said. "God's gifts are all 15 
good, and yet which one of them is not abused and 
sometimes made to serve the purposes of wicked 
men. What will the art of printing do? It will 
carry the knowledge of good into all lands ; it will 
promote virtue ; it will be a new means of giving 20 
utterance to the thoughts of the wise and the good." 

Gutenberg threw down his hammer and set to 
work to repair the mischief that he had done. But 
scarcely had he put his printing machine in good 
order when other troubles arose. He was in debt, 3b 
and he had difficulties with the town officers. His 
goods were seized upon ; his types were destroyed ; 



181 

and he was at last obliged to return penniless to his 
old home in Mayence. 

V. JOHN FUST. 

In Mayence, Gutenberg had an old friend named 
John Fust, who was a goldsmith and very rich. 

5 With this man he soon formed a partnership, and a 
printing office much better than the one at Stras- 
burg was set up. Several books, most of them on 
religious subjects, were printed and sent out, and the 
business was soon in a flourishing condition. 

10 But Gutenberg's troubles were not yet ended. 
There were a great many people who were opposed 
to his new way of making books. The copyists who 
made their living by transcribing books were very 
bitter against it because it would destroy their busi- 

15 ness. They formed a league to oppose the printers, 

and before long drove Gutenberg out of Mayence. 

After wandering to various places in Germany, 

he at last gained the friendship of Adolphus, the 

Elector of Nassau, who took a great interest in his 

20 plans. A press was set up at the court of the 
Elector, and there Gutenberg worked for several 
years, printing volume after volume with his own 
hands. But his invention did not bring him wealth. 
When he died at the age of sixty-nine years, he left 

26 no property but a few books which he had printed. 



182 

His partner, John Fust, had been much more 
fortunate. He had set up another press at Mayence, 
and in spite of the copyists and their friends was 
printing many books, and reaping great profits from 
their sale. One summer he printed some Bibles and s 
took them to Paris to sell. They looked very much 
like the manuscript copies made by the copyists, for 
it was to the interest of the printers to pass off their 
books as manuscripts. People were astonished when 
Fust offered to sell his Bibles at sixty crowns, while lo 
the copyists demanded five hundred. They were 
still more astonished when he produced them as fast 
as they were wanted, and finally lowered the price. 
The copyists were very bitter against him. 

'' He is a magician ! " they cried. " No one but a 15 
magician could do this." And so the officers were 
sent to arrest him and search his rooms. They found 
a great many Bibles and some red ink. 

" There is no doubt about it," said the officers. 
^'This is blood, and the man is a magician." 20 

In order to save himself from being burned as a 
wizard, Fust was obliged to go before the Parliament' 
of Paris and tell all about his new method of mak- 
ing books, and how he used the red ink for embel- 
lishing the borders of the pages. 25 

It was thus that the art of printing by movable 
types first became known to the world. 




THE WANDERER 
Upon a mountain height far from the soa 

I found a shell, 
And to my listening ear the lonely 

thing 
Ever a song of ocean seemed 
to sing, 
Ever a tale of ocean 
seemed to tell. 

How came the shell upon that 

mountain height ? ,. 

Ah, who can say ? Engwe Fi.u. 

Whether there dropped by some too careless hand 
Or whether there cast when Ocean left the Land 

Ere the Eternal had ordained the Day. 
Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep 

One song it sang, — 
Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide, 
Sang of the misty sea, profound and wide, — 

Ever with echoes of the ocean rang. 
And, as the shell upon the mountain height 

Sings of the sea, 
So do I ever, leagues and leagues away, — 
So do I ever, wandering where I may — 

Sing, my home ! sing, my home, of thee ! 
— Eugene Field. 



LEAD THOU ME ON. 

Lead, kindly light, amid the encir- 
cling gloom, 

Lead thou me on ! 
The night is dark, and I am far from 
home, — 

Lead thou me on ! 
Keep thou my feet; I do not 

ask to see 
The distant scene, — one step 
enough for me. 

Oardiiol Nevmaa. 

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou 

Shouldst lead me on. 
I loved to choose and see my path, but now 

Lead thou me on ! 
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
Pride ruled my will : remember not past years. 




So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it still 

Will lead me on, 
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 

The night is gone ; 
And with the niorn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost a while. 

— John Henry Newman. 



185 



THE AMERICAN INDIAN. 

Not many generations ago, where you now sit, 
encircled with all that exalts and embellishes civil- 
ized life, the rank thistle nodded in the wind, and 
the wild fox dug his hole unscared. Here lived 

3 and loved another race of beings. Beneath the 
same sun that rolls over your heads, the Indian 
hunter pursued the panting deer; gazing on the 
same moon that smiles for you, the Indian lover 
wooed his dusky mate. 

10 Here the wigwam blaze beamed on the tender 
and helpless, the council fire glared on the wise and 
daring. Now they dipped their noble limbs in your 
sedgy lakes, and now they paddled the light canoe 
along your rocky shores. Here they warred ; the 

15 echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, the defying 
death song, all were here ; and, when the tiger strife 
was over, here curled the smoke of peace. 

Here, too, they worshiped; and from many a 
dark bosom went up a pure prayer to the Great 

20 Spirit. He had not written his laws for them on 
tables of stone, but he had traced them on the tables 
of their hearts. The poor child of nature knew not 
the G i of revelation, but the God of the universe 
he acknowledged in everything around. 

26 He beheld him in the star that sank in beauty 



186 

behind his lonely dwelling ; in the sacred orb that 
flamed on him from his midday throne; in the 
flower that snapped in the morning breeze ; in the 
lofty pine, that defied a thousand whirlwinds ; in 
the timid warbler that never left its native grove ; 5 
in the fearless eagle whose untired pinion was wet 
in clouds ; in the worm that crawled at his foot ; 
and in his own matchless form, glowing with a 
spark of that light, to whose mysterious Source 
he bent, in humble, though blind, adoration. 10 

And all this has passed away. Across the ocean 
came a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and 
death. The former were sown for you; the latter 
sprang up in the path of the simple native. Two 
hundred years have changed the character of a 15 
great continent, and blotted, forever, from its face a 
whole peculiar people. Art has usurped the bowers 
of nature, and the anointed children of education 
have been too powerful for the tribes of the ignorant. 

Here and there, a stricken few remain ; but how 20 
unlike their bold, untamed, untamable progenitors ! 
The Indian of falcon glance and lion bearing, the 
theme of the touching ballad, the hero of the pathetic 
tale, is gone ! and his degraded offspring crawl upon 
the soil where he walked in majesty, to remind us 25 
how miserable is man, when the foot of the con- 
queror is on his neck. 



isr 

As a race, they have withered from the land. 
Their arrows are broken, their springs are dried 
up, their cabins are in the dust. Their council fire 
has long since gone out on the shore, and their 

6 war cry is fast dying to the untrodden west. Slowly 
and sadly they climb the distant mountains. They 
are shrinking before the mighty tide which is press- 
ing them away ; they must soon hear the roar of the 
last wave, which will settle over them forever. 

10 Ages hence, the inquisitive white man, as he stands 
by some growing city, will ponder on the structure 
of their disturbed remains, and wonder to what man- 
ner of person they belonged. They will live only in 
the songs and chronicles of their exterminators. Let 

15 these be faithful to their rude virtues as men, and 
pay due tribute to their unhappy fate as a people. 

— Charles Spragiie, 



-OO^lO^OO- 



THE PASSING OF KING ARTHUR. 

Whether there ever was a real King Arthur, or 
whether he lived only in the imagination of story- 
tellers and song writers, no one can tell. This much 
20 is true, however, that the history of his exploits and 
those of his Knights of the Round Table has existed 
in poetry and song for now almost a thousand years. 



188 

Long before there were any English books worth 
speaking of, the story of King Arthur was sung and 
recited by wandering bards to delighted listeners in 
the halls and castles of Old England. In the course 
of time it was written down in poetry and in prose ; 5 
it was turned into French, and from the French back 
into English again ; other stories were added to it, 
and it became the most popular romance ever com- 
posed. In 1470, a knight whose name was Sir 
Thomas Malory made a version of it in what was 10 
then good English prose, taking it, as he said,, " out 
of a certain book of French." This version has ever 
since been the one book to which all who would 
know the story of King Arthur have turned ; it is 
the mine from which later writers have derived 15 
materials for their works. It is written in a style 
which, although old-fashioned and quaint, is wonder- 
fully simple and beautiful. 

One of the most touching passages in the story is 
that which tells how King Arthur, having fought 20 
his last battle, lay wounded upon the ground ; and 
how, being deserted by all the knights except Sir 
Bedivere, he waited for the coming of fairy messen- 
gers to bear him away to the island valley of Avilion. 
Here is the passage, not in the exact words of Sir 25 
Thomas Malory, but repeated, somewhat after his 
manner, in words of modern usage. 



189 

" My hour is near at hand," said the king to Sir 
Bedivere. "Therefore, take thou my good sword 
Excalibur, and go with it to yonder water side ; and 
when thou comest there, I charge thee thro\v it in 
5 that water, and then come and tell me what thou 
hast seen." 

" My lord," said Sir Bedivere, " your bidding shall 
be done, and I will come quickly and bring you 
word." 
10 So Sir Bedivere departed, and as he went he looked 
at that noble sword, and saw that the hilt and guard 
were covered with precious stones ; and then he said 
to himself, "If I throw this rich sword into the 
water, no good shall ever come of it, but only harm 
15 and loss." 

Then Sir Bedivere hid Excalibur under a tree. 
And as soon as he might, he came again unto the 
king, and said he had been at the water side, and 
had thrown the sword into the water. 
20 " What sawest thou there ? " said the king. 
" Sir, I saw nothing but waves and winds." 
" Thou speakest not the truth," said the king. 
"Therefore, go quickly again and do my bidding; 
and as thou art dear to me, spare not, but throw 
25 the sword in." 

Then Sir Bedivere returned again, and took the 
* sword in his hand. But when he looked at it he 



190 

thought it a sin and a shame to throw away so noble 
a sword. And so, after he had hidden it again, he 
came back and told the king that he had been at the 
water and liad done his bidding. 

" What sawest thou there ? " said the king. 




hajid bIuts the w&ter. 



" Sir," he said, " I saw nothing but the waves lap- 
ping on the beach, and the water rising and falling 
among the reeds." 

"Ah, traitor untrue," said King Arthur, "now 
thou hast betrayed me twice. Who would have lo 
thought that thou, who hast been so near and dear 
to me and art called a noble knight, would betray' 



191 

me for the riches of the sword ? But now go again 
quickly, for I am chilled with cold, and my life is in 
danger through thy long delay. And if thou dost 
not do my bidding, and I ever see thee again, I will 

5 slay thee with my own hands ; for thou, for the sake 
of my rich sword, would see me dead." 

Then Sir Bedivere departed ; and he quickly took 
the sword and went to the water side. Then he 
wrapped the belt about the hilt, and threw the 

10 sword as far into the water as he could. And there 
came an arm and a hand above the water, and 
caught the sword, and shook it thrice and bran- 
dished it. Then the hand, with the sword, van- 
ished in the water. So Sir Bedivere came again 

15 to the king and told him what he had seen. 

" Alas," said the king, " help me from this place ; 
for I fear that I have tarried top long." 

Then Sir Bedivere took the king upon his back, 
and carried him to the water side. And when they 

20 came to the water, a little barge was seen floating 

close by the bank ; and in the barge were many fair 

ladies, and among them was a queen. All these 

wept and cried out when they saw King Arthur. 

" Now put me into the barge," said the king ; and 

25 this Sir Bedivere did, with tenderness and care. 

And three of the fair ladies received him with 
great mourning. Then that one who was the queen 



192 

said: "Ah, dear brother, why have you staid so 
long? Alas, I fear lest this wound on your head 
has been chilled over much with the cold ! " 

Then they rowed from the land, and Sir Bedivere 
watched them. And he cried : " Ah, my lord 5 
Arthur! What shall become of me, now you go 
away and leave me here alone among my enemies ? " 

" Comfort thyself," said the king, " and do the 
best thou canst, for I can no longer give thee help. 
For I go now into the vale of Avilion, to heal me of 10 
my grievous wound. If thou never hear more of 
me, pray for my soul." 

But the ladies and the queen wept and cried 
in a way that was piteous to hear. And when Sir 
Bedivere lost sight of the barge, he wept bitterly ; 15 
and, weeping, he went into the forest, where he 
wandered all that long night. 

" Some men yet say," continues Sir Thomas 
Malory, " that King Arthur is not dead, but taken 
by the will of our Lord into another, place. And no 
men say that he shall come again and shall win 
the hol}^ cross. I will not say it shall be so, but 
rather I will say that in this world he changed his 
life. But many men say that there is written upon 
his tomb a verse in Latin, which when turned into 26 
English, is this : ' Here lieth Arthur, that was and 
is to be King.' 



> j> 



193 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



-♦o*- 



George Bancroft : An American historian. Born at Worces- 
ter, Massachusetts, 1800 ; died, 1891. Wrote " History of the 
United States from the Discovery of the Continent" (10 vol.). 
Was United States Minister to Germany, 1867-1874. 

Daniel Boone : The pioneer of Kentucky. Born in Pennsyl- 
vania, 1735 ; died in Missouri, 1820. 

William CuUen Bryant: An eminent American poet. Born 
in Massachusetts, 1794; died, 1878. Wrote " Thanat'opsis " 
and many other short poems. Was one of the editors of the 
" Evening Post " (New York) for more than fifty years. " No 
poet has described with more fidelity the beauties of creation, 
nor sung in nobler song the greatness of the Creator." 

Richard Henry Dana, Jr. : An American lawyer and author. 
Born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1815; died, 1868. Wrote 
" Two Years before the Mast " (1840). 

Charles Dickens : An English novelist. Born at Landport, 
England, 1812; died, 1870. His best short stories are his 
"Christmas Carol" and other Christmas stories. His best 
novel is generally conceded to be " David Copperfield." 

William Dimond : An English poet, remembered only for his 
" Mariner's Dream." Died, about 1837. 

Eugene Field : An American journalist and author. Born in 
St. Louis, 1850 ; died in Chicago, 1895. Wrote " A Little Book 
of. Western Verse," «A Little Book of Profitable Tales," 
" Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac," and several other volumes. 

Robert Fulton : An American inventor. Born in Lancaster 
County, Pennsylvania, 1765 ; died, 1815. 

Sir Archibald Geikie: A Scottish geologist. Born in Edin- 
burgh, 1835. Has written "The Story of a Boulder," "A 

8CH. READ. V. — 13 



194 



Class Book of Physical Jeography," and many other populai 
and scientific works on geological subjects. 

Thomas Grimke: An American lawyer and philanthropist. 
Born in South Carolina, 1786 ; died, 1834. 

Nathaniel Hawthorne: A distinguished American author. 
Born at Salem, Massachusetts, 1804; died, 1864. Wrote 
"The Scarlet Letter," "The Marble Faun," "The House of 
the Seven Gables," " The Wonder Book," " Tanglewood Tales," 
etc. His style has been said to possess '• almost every excel- 
lence — elegance, simplicity, grace, clearness, and force." 

Homer: The reputed author of the two great poems, the 
" Iliad " and the " Odyssey." Supposed to have been born at 
Smyrna, or Chios, about one thousand years before Christ. 
The "Iliad" has been called "the beginning of all literature." 

Washington Irving: An American author and humorist. Born 
in New York, 1783 ; died, 1859. Wrote " The Sketch Book,'' 
" History of New York by Diedrich Knickerbocker," " Tales of 
a Traveler," "The Alhambra," "Columbus and his Compan- 
ions," "Mahomet and his Successors," and many other works. 

Charles Kingsley : An English clergyman and writer. Born 
in Devonshire, 1819; died, 1875. Wrote "Hypatia," "West- 
ward Ho ! " " The Heroes," "The Water Babies," "Alton Locke, 
Tailor and Poet," "Madame How and Lady Why," several 
poems, and a volume of sermons. 

Sir Edwin Landseer : The most famous of modern painters of 
animals. Born in London, 1802 ; died, 1873. His pictures of 
dogs and horses have seldom, if ever, been surpassed. 

Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, Baron Lytton : A British novel- 
ist and poet. Born in Norfolk, England, 1803 ; died, 1873. 
Wrote "The Last Days of Pompeii," "The Caxtons," "My 
Novel," and many other novels ; also, several volumes of poems, 
and two dramas, " The Lady of Lyons " and " Richelieu." 

Sir Thomas Malory: A Welsh or English Knight, remem- 



196 

bered for his noble prose epic, "Morte d'Arthur," which he 
translated from the French. Born, about 1430. 

John Henry Newman : An eminent English theologian. Born 
in London, 1801 ; died, 1890. Wrote many religious and con- 
troversial works, and a few beautiful hymns. In 1879 he was 
made cardinal-deacon in the Roman Catholic Church. 

John Ruskin : A distinguished English author and art critic. 
Born in London, 1819. Has written " The Stones of Venice," 
« Sesame and Lilies," " Ethics of the Dust," " The Queen of 
the Air," "Crown of Wild Olive," " Prseterita," and many 
other works, chiefly on subjects connected with art. 

Sir Walter Scott : A celebrated novelist and poet. Born in 
Edinburgh, Scotland, 1771 ; died, 1832. Wrote the " Waverley 
Novels," « The Lay of the Last Minstrel," « The Lady of the 
Lake," " Tales of a Grandfather," and many other works. 

Charles Sprague : An American poet. Born in Boston, 1791 ; 
died 1875. Wrote several short poems, most of which are now 
forgotten. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson : Poet laureate of England. Born in 
Lincolnshire, 1809 ; died, 1892. Wrote " Idylls of the King," 
" In Memoriam," " The Princess," and many shorter poems ; 
also the dramas " Queen Mary," " Harold," and " Becket." 

Daniel Webster: American statesman and orator. Born in 
New Hampshire, 1782 ; died, 1852. His most famous orations 
are those on Bunker Hill, Adams and Jefferson, and his " Keply 
to Hayne." 

John Greenleaf Whittier: A distinguished American poet. 
Born at Haverhill, Massachusetts, 1807; died, 1892. Wrote 
many volumes of poetry, including "In War Time," "Snow- 
Bound," "Mabel Martin," "The King's Missive," and others. 

Samuel Woodworth : An American journalist and poet. Born 
in Massachusetts, 1785 ; died, 1842. He is remembered chiefly 
for his little poem " The Old Oaken Bucket." 



196 



WORD LIST. 



THE MOST DIFFICULT WORDS IN THE PRECEDING 
LESSONS PRONOUNCED AND DEFINED. 



KEY TO THE MARKS OF PRONUNCIATION. 

a, e, i, o, n, long ; S, S, t, o, tt, y, short ; c&re, arm, &sk, all ; f^rn ; 
fdrm, son ; rude, full, Qrn ; fdod, booR ; finder ; gentle ; chasm ; 
thin ; them ; iok. 



a ban'don. To give up ; relin- 
quish. 

Sb'bot. The ruler of an abbey. 

a br id ged'. Shortened. 

a byss'. a bottomless gulf, [tened. 

ac QeFerated. Quickened ; has- 

ac'^l dent, a sudden and unex- 
pected event. 

a chieved'. Done ; accomplished. 

acknowredged(aknor6jd). 

Assented to ; owned as a 
fact. [light. 

ad mi ra'tion. Wonder and de- 

af f ect'ed. Moved ; influenced. 

agi taction. Emotion; excite- 
ment. 

a loOl . Away from. [ishment. 

a maze'ment. Wonder ; aston- 

am'ber. Yellowish. 

ain'bling. Going at an easy gait. 

3,m mu ni'tion. Articles used 
in charging firearms. 



am'ple. Sufficient. "Ample 
prospects " = wide or ex- 
tended views. 

a n8n'. ** Ever and anon " = fre- 
quently; often. 

Sn'ti quat ed. Old-fashioned. 

an tique' (Sn teek'). Old ; an- 
cient, [deer. 

an'tlered. Having horns like a 

ap pairing. Terrible ; fearful. 

appar'ently. Clearly; seem- 
ingly, [pearance ; a ghost. 

ap pa ri'tion. a wonderful ap- 

ap pli caption (of the rod). 

The act of laying on. 

ap point'ed. Set apart ; named ; 
established. 

Sp pren'tT^e ship. Service un- 
der legal agreement for the 
purpose of learning a trade 
or art. [out. 

Ss qer tained'. Learned ; found 



197 



^'pens. Poplar trees of a cer- 
tain kind, the leaves of 
which are moved by the 
slightest breeze. 

aSSault^ed. Attacked ; set upon 
with violence. [part. 

a stern . At the stem or hinder 

at most = at the greatest esti- 
mate, [matter. 

St'om. The smallest particle of 

au'di ble. That can be heard. 

au'di ence. An assembly of 
hearers. 

a v6nge'. To inflict punishment 
upon evil doers for an in- 
jury to one's self or friends. 

bal driC. A broad belt worn over 

• « 

one shoulder and under the 
opposite arm. 

bar. The legal profession. ** Ad- 
mitted to the bar" = au- 
thorized to practice law in 
the courts. 

ba SIS. Foundation ; groundwork. 

bask ing. Lying in a warm place. 

bay. ** Leaves of bay'' = leaves 
of the laurel tree. 

be dlght'. Dressed. 

bel lig'er ent. Warlike. 

be stowed'. Placed ; used ; im- 
parted. 

bewtrdered. Greatly perplexed. 

be witched'. Charmed ; en- 
tranced. 



bick'er. To move quickly, 
bilge water. Water in the hold 
of a ship. 

birch (of jiis tice). A tough, 

slender twig, used in school 
for punishment. 

biv'ouac (blv'wSk). An en- 
campment for the night 
without tents or covering. 

bla'zoned. Displayed in bright 
colors ; published far and 
wide. 

bliib'ber. The fat of whales and 
other large sea animals, 
from which oil is obtained. 

bliish'ing gob'let. a goblet 

or glass full of red wine. 

boat'swain (bo's'n). An offi- 
cer who has charge of the 
boats of a ship. 

bSnds'man. a slave. 

bow er. a lady's private apart- 
ment ; a shady recess. 

brake, a thicket; a place over- 
grown with shrubs. 

bram'bly. Full of briers. 

bran'dished. Shook or flour- 
ished. 

broad'side. a discharge at the 
same time of all the guns 
on one side of a ship. 

biic Ca neers'. Robbers upon the 
sea. [mass. 

buriion. Gold or silver in the 



198 



biirgh'er. Townsman ; vDlager. 

biir'nished. Polished. 
biirnt 8f f er ing. Something 

offered and burnt on an 
altar as an atonement for 
sin. 

biix'om . stout and rosy. 

Cane'brakes. Thickets of canes. 

Ca pri^'ious. changeable ; freak- 
ish. 

car ni v'or OUS. Flesh-eating. 

case ment. a window sash open- 
ing on hinges. 

Cat'a rSct. a waterfall. 

9eriu lar. Containing cells. 

-ehasms (kazmz). Deep open- 
ings in the earth. 

Ch8p'f alien. Dejected; down- 
cast. 

■ehrSn'i cles. Historical account 
of facts arranged in regular 
order. 

churls. Countrymen ; laborers. 

qir cum'fer en^e. The distance 

around. 

qir'cum stan qes. Facts ; 

events. 
cleave. Separate ; divide, 
close hauled. Moving as nearly 

as possible toward the wind, 
clue. A thread ; means of guid- 



ance. 



f^ • 



coinage. The act of making 
pieces of money from metal. 



C8ra biis'ti ble. That can be 

burned. [and sold. 

C8m mSd'i ties. Things bought 

c8m'mon wSalth. a state; 

the public. 

C5m muned'. Talked together. 

C5m mu ni caption, inter- 
course; news. [reward. 

C5m pen sa'tion. Payment; 

c8m'pli cat ed. Complex ; com- 
bined in an intricate man- 
ner, [mixed. 

C8m pound'ed. Put together; 

C8n ^ed'ed. Gave up ; yielded. 

C8n 9Sp'tions. ideas ; notions. 

C8n f erred'. Gave ; bestowed. 

c8n f r6nts\ Meets face to face. 

con Spic'u OUS. Plain ; distinct. 

con Stlt'u entS. Component 
parts. [bidden. 

C8n'tra band . Prohibited ; f or- 

COOt. A bird resembling a duck. 

c8p y ist. One who copies. 

cor riipt'. To change from good 
to bad ; depraved, [ance. 

COUn'te nan^e. Face ; appear- 

Cra'ni um. The skull, [volcano. 

era ter . The opening or mouth of a 

ere dull ty. Readiness of belief. 

Cr8pped. Grazed. ** Hair cropped 
close " = hair cut short. 

crouched, stooped low, as an 
animal when waiting for 
prey. 



199 



ctir'dled . Coagulated ; thickened. 
"Curdling awe" = awe 
that thickens the blood in 
the veins. [ian. 

CUS to'di an. a keeper ; guard- 

de clSn'sion. a failing. ** De- 
clension of spirits " = loss 
of cheerfulness. 

dSm'on Strate. To explain ; 
point out. 

de noun^e'. To accuse; threaten. 

de prgss'ing. Pressing down ; 
humbling. 

de scried'. Saw ; beheld. 

de gerts' (de zerts') . « Accord- 
ing to his deserts " = as he 
deserves. 

de spite'ful ly. Maliciously. 

de Sp8t'ic (power). Tlie power 
of a master ; tyranny. 

devolved'. Passed from one 
person to another. 

di'a grams. Drawings; plans. 

die tat'ed. said ; declared. 

diffused'. Spread; circulated. 

dig ni ty. Loftiness and grace. 

diri gent. Busy ; earnest. 

di men'sions. Extent ; measure. 

discSrd'ant. Unmusical; jar- 
ring. 

dis COUn'te nan^ed. Discour- 
aged ; abashed. 

dis gUl§ed'. Hidden. 

disk. The face of a heavenly body. 



dis sSv'ered. separated. 
dSg'ged. Sullen ; obstinate. 
doubloon'. a Spanish coin 

worth about ^15.00. 
drSm'atized. Represented in 

a play, 
drudg'er y. Hard, mean labor. 
due. **A stranger's due" = that 

which custom requires to 

be given to a stranger. 
dusk. '* Breezes dusk and shiver " 

= darken and cause to 

quiver, 
ec'sta sy. Extreme delight. 
eight-bells. On shipboard, the 

striking of a bell eight 

times at 4, 8, and 12 o'clock. 
eked, increased, [of something. 
el e inent. One of several parts 

em bel'lish ing. illustrating ; 

beautifying. 

em'blem. sign. [tion. 

6m'i nen9e. High place or sta- 
e mit'ting. Sending out. 
en 91 reeled. Surrounded. 
enCOUn'tered. Met face to face. 
ensign, a banner; one who 
carries a banner. [tive. 
en'ter prl^ ing. Resolute ; ac- 
en th roned'. Put on a throne. 

en treat'. To beg off. 

e r Up'tion . a breaking out. 
e'ther. The air ; a light, volatile 
liquid. 



200 



Sv er-va'ry ing. Ever-changing. 
6vl dence. Proof. [on high. 

ex alt'ed (Sgz alt'ed). Raised 

ex feeding. More than usual. 
ex 9Ss'sive. Overmuch. 
exclu'sive. shutting out all 

others. 
ex e CU fed . Performed. 

ex haust'ing (6gz astlng). 

Using up ; tiring out. 
ex per'i mentS. Trials ; tests. 
ex port'ed . Carried out. 

ex pQs tu la'tions. 

Remonstrances. 
ex pressly. Particularly. 

ex'quis ite (ex'kw i zit). 

Very excellent ; nice. 

ex tant'. still existing. 

exult'ed (egZ iilt'ed). Re- 
joiced. 

f Sriow. Land left unplowed. 

fan tSs'tic. Fanciful ; unreal. 

fath'om. Six feet. 

fa tig'u ing (fa teg'ing). 

Tiring ; wearying. 
f e 189! ty . Fierceness. 

ferrule (fgr'ril). a short stick 

or ruler. 
feuds. Quarrels; disputes. 
filin'§y. Weak ; limp. 
f O ray'. An attack ; a raid. 

fore'cas tie (for'kas'l). The 

forward part of a ship. 
fSre'land. a cape ; headland. 



for SWear^ To declare or deny- 
on oath. 
f o'rum. A court ; tribunal, 
foul. Shameful ; disgraceful. 

f rag'men ta ry. in pieces. 

f ra te r'nal . Brotherly, 
froi/tier. Borderland. [ing. 
f ur'bish ing. Scouring; clean- 

gar'ish. showy. 

gar'nished. Decorated, 
gaunt (gant) . Thin ; lean, 
gem'iny. Full of gems, 
girth. Band fastening a saddle 
on a horse's back. , [ice. 

gla'cier (gla'sher). Field of 

.glu'ey. Full of glue ; sticky. 

gnarled (narld). Knotty ; 

twisted, 
goblm, A mischievous spirit; 

pliantom. 
good'man. a tenant, 
gos'sip. To tattle ; talk, 
gran'deur. Vastness; nobility. 
graph'lC. Vivid ; impressive. 

gray'ling. a kind of fish. 

greaves. Armor for the leg be- 
low the knee. 

griev'ous. Causing sorrow. 

guard. Protection. ** Mounting 
guard " = keeping watch. 

giit'tur al. a sound made in the 
throat. 

hapless. Unfortunate. 

hap'ly. Fortunately. 



201 



har pOOn'. a barbed spear, used 
in catching whales and 
other sea animals. 

haunts. Places of resort. 

heav'ing. Hoisting; straining. 

her'alded. Proclaimed; made 
known, [established belief . 

her e Sy. Opinion contrary to 

hern, a wading bird. [turvy. 

higgledy-piggledy. Topsy- 

hooves. Feet of horses or cattle, 
horse'man ship. The riding of 

horses. 
hove. Hoisted ; came to a stop, 
hu mane'. Kind ; gentle, 
hug'band man. Farmer, 
hiis'tled (husTd). Pushed; 

crowded. [embellishers, 
il lu'mi na tors. illustrators ; 
il lus'tri OUS. Noble ; grand, 
im bed'ded . Covered over. 
impearled^ Made look as 

though ornamented with 

pearls. [entered. 

ira pen'e tra ble. Not to bt 

im per f ec'tions. shortcom- 
ings ; failings. 

im'potence. Weakness; in- 
firmity ; having no power. 

impres'sion. Mark made by 
pressure. 

in'^i dents. Happenings. 

in cli na'tion. Desire, [against. 

in clined'. Leaned toward ; placed 



— / 



in con ve ni en^e. Disadvan- 
tage ; awkwardness. 

in CrSd'i ble. Not to be believed. 

in Cred ti'li ty. Showing dis- 
belief. 

in Cred'u loUS. Unbelieving. 

in den ta'tion. Notch ; dent. 

in di captions. Signs ; symptoms. 

in differ en^e. Carelessness ; 
heedlessness. [described. 

in ex pres'si ble. Not to be 

in'no cen^e. Harmlessness. 
in no va'tions. Things not cus- 
tomary, [ber. 

in nu'mer a ble. without num- 
• -/ 

m qui ry. Research ; an inquir- 
ing. 

in Sgp'ar a ble. Nottobedivided. 

m'so lent ly. Rudely, [lished. 

in Sti tti'tion. Something estab- 

in sure'. To make sure. 

in tellec'tual. Belonging to 
the mind ; mental. 

in tgrii gen9e. News. 

intSns'est. strictest; extreme 
in degree. [on the way. 

in ter ^ept'ed. cutoff ; stopped 

interfered'. Meddled; inter- 
posed, [gether. 

intermingling. Mixing to- 
in un da'tion. a flood. 

in venation. Discovery; find- 
ing out. [into. 

in ves tiga'tion. a looking 



202 



ir re§'o lute ly . in an undecided 
manner. [settled. 

i tin'er ant. Wandering ; not 
keel. The bottom part of a boat, 
knell. A funeral bell. 

knight-er'rant. a knight who 

traveled in search of adven- 
tures. 

knoll . A little round hill. 

lS,ird. A Scottish landholder. 

lar'board. Left-hand side of a 
ship. [alarums = alarms. 

'lar'ums. Abbreviation of 

lat'er al. sideways. 

launch'ing. Setting afloat. 

lau rel. An evergreen shrub ; 
a symbol of honor. 

la Va. Melted rock from a volcano. 

league. About three miles ; a 
treaty of friendship. 

leeSvard. The part toward which 
the wind blows. 

I6g is la'tion. Lawmaking. 

Igp'rOUS. Affected with a disease 
called leprosy. 

1 it'e r al ly . Word for word . 

lock er. a chest on shipboard. 

lu'mi nous. Shining ; bright. 

liis'ti ly. Vigorously ; with 

strength. 

lust'y. Stout ; robust. 

lux u'ri OUS. Dainty ; expen- 
sive ; pleasing to the appe- 
tite. 



lyre (lir). a stringed musical 
instrument. 

magT9'ian (-jish'un). One 

skilled in magic, [principal, 
main. The sea; the mainland; 
majes'tic. Stately; giand. 

mal for ma' tion . irregular 

formation. 

maVlow. A kind of plant. 

manifest. Plain; clear. 

man'u script. Something writ- 
ten by hand. 

mSd'i ta tive . Thoughtful. 

mSt'tle. Spirit ; temper. 

mi li'tia (mi lish'a). a body 

of citizen soldiers, [coined, 
mint. A place where money is 

mis cliSn9e'. ni luck. 

m is's lie . Something thrown. 

mis treating. Abusing. 

mol es taction. Troubling ; an- 
noyance. 

mood. Temper ; humor ; manner. 

m6r ti fi caption. Vexation ; 
shame. 

mo tive. Moving ; causing to 
move ; reason. 

murkl ness. Obscurity ; dark- 
ness. 

myr'tle. a shrubby plant. 

myste'rioUS. strange; un- 
known ; unaccountable. 

nar'ra tive. story ; tale. 

nau'ti cal. Belonging to the sea. 



203 



nSc'tar. a delicious drink. 

nStil'er. Lower. 

nobirity. The being noble; 
those of high rank. 

nourish er. One who supports 
or feeds. 

n5v el. A fictitious narrative. 

ob li ga'tions. Debts owing for 
a favor or kindness. 

ob ger Va'tion . view ; notice ; 
comment. 

8bM at ed. Avoided, 

of fi^'ioUS (8f fish'us). Med- 
dlesome. 

Sm'i nous. Foreboding eviL 

8p por tti'ni ty. chance; fit 
time. 

8p'u lent. Rich. 

or dained'. Set apart ; appointed. 

pad'. An easy -paced horse. 

page. A boy employed to attend 
a person of high rank. 

pa rade'. Display ; show. 

parch'ment. Skin of a sheep 
prepared for writing on. 

pas'try cooks. Cooks who make 
pies, tarts, etc. 

pa thet'ic. FuU of tender pity. 

pa troriing. Traversing ; guard- 
ing, [lar. 

pe CU liar. Uncommon ; particu- 

ped'agSgue. a schoolmaster. . 

pen'sive. Thoughtful. 

pe'o ny. a big red flower. 



per 96pt'i ble. That can be seen. 

per pet u al. ah the time. 

pSr Se CUt'ed. Punished on ac- 
count of one's belief ; har- 
assed, [presentable. 

per'son a ble. Well-fonned ; 

per'ti nent. Well adapted to the 
purpose in view. 

per verse'. Contrary. 

peVee. a small bird. 

pew'ter (pu'ter). au aiioy of 

tin and lead, 
phe n8m'e non . a remarkable 

thing or appearance. 
pic tU resque'ly . vividly ; in a 

pleasing manner. 
pilT-lOn. Cushion behind a saddle, 
pi lot. One who steers a vessel ; 

a guide, 
pined. Drooped; languished. 
pm'ions. Wmgs. [peaks, 

pm'nacles. Lofty points or 
pi O neer'. One who goes before 

and prepares the way for 

others. 
pit'e OUS. Exciting pity. 
pitl a ble. Deserving pity. 
plash'y. Watery ; splashy, 
poig'on OUS. Full of poison. 

politi'9ian(-tish'an). states- 
man ; office seeker, 
pol lut'ed. Made impure. 

pom'mel (pum'mel). Knob 

of a saddle or of a sword. 



204 



p8n'der ous . weighty . 

por'^ti COes. Covered spaces be- 
fore buildings. 

p8s si Wri ties. Things possible. 

pos'tern. Back entrance. 

po'tent. Powerful. 

pre'^ious neSS. Great value. 

pre'ma ture ly. Before the 
right time. 

prrnial. First; original. 

pr8d'igal dyes. Brilliant colors. 

pr8j'ects. Plans. 

promot'ed. Assisted; raised. 

pro peiring. Driving. 

proph'e^y (prQfesy). a 

foretelling. [owner. 

pro pri'e ta ry . Pertaining to an 

prow. Fore part of a vessel. 

piib'li cans. Collectors of taxes ; 
keepers of inns. 

puml^e (purn'is). A light vol- 
canic stone. 

pti/poses. Aims; intentions. 

quag'mire. a marsh ; soft, wet 
land. 

quar'ter-deck . That part of the 

upper deck behind the main- 
mast. 

quartern, a quarter of a pint ; 
a fourth part. 

queued, (ktid). Hair put up into 
a pigtail. 

qUlV er. Case for carrying arrows. 

rSck'et ing. Frolicking ; playing. 



rSri ied. Ridiculed pleasantly. 

rSm'pant. Leaping; frolicking. 

ra n ged . Roved over ; wandered. 

re 9ep'^ta cle. Place to receive 
things. 

rec ol lec'^tion. Remembrance. 

rec on no^ter. To look around. 

re flec'tion. Consideration ; med- 
itation ; musing ; the return 
of rays, sound, etc., from a 
surface. 

re luc'tance. Unwillingness. 

rSm'nants. Pieces remaining. 

renowned^ Celebrated; fa- 



mous. 



required. Returned evil for 

evil. 
re §8rt'. To go ; a place to which 

one is in the habit of going. 

res'pite (rgs'pit). a putting 

off; reprieve. 

rev'eren9e. To treat with re- 
spect and fear. 

riv'en. Split apart. 

ro man'tic. Unreal; picturesque. 

roys'ter ing. Blustering. 

sac'ristan. Sexton; church 
officer. 

sSriy. A rushing out; to go out. 

samite, a kind of silk stuff in- 
terwoven with gold. * 

sapphire (sSfir). a blue pre- 
cious stone. 

sea^goned. Dried and hardened. 



205 



se clud'ed. shut up apart from 
others. 

se Cret'ed. Concealed. 

S6ll'ti ment. Thought ; opinion. 

shSriop. A boat. 

Sham'bled. shuffled along. 

sheatiied . Put into a case. 

sllin'gly bars. Gravelly shal- 
lows. 

shrouds of a ship. The set of 
ropes that stay the masts. 

SI es ta. A midday nr-p. 

Slin'm er . To boil gently. 

sim pll^'i ty. Plainness ; truth- 
fulness. 

Sin'ew y. vigorous ; firm. 

Sit U a tlOn. Location ; place. 

Six'pen9e. a silver coin worth 
about 12 cents. 

sketch es. Short essays or stories. 

skim'ming. Flying with a gentle 
motion. 

Slap'jacks. Griddle cakes. 

Sliig'gish. Slow; lazy. 

Smith'y. A blacksmith's shop. 

snipe. A small bird having a 
long, straight beak. * * Snipe 
nose " = a nose like a snipe's 
beak. [converse. 

SO 9! a bll' i ty . Readiness to 

SO joiimed'. Remained awhile. 

solely. Alone ; only. 

Spe'^ieS. Sort ; kind ; variety. 

Sp§c'ter. Ghost ; phantom. 



spgc U la'tion. Notion; theory. 

States'men. Men eminent for 
their political abilities. 

steer 'age . Part of a vessel below 
decks. 

StSm and stern. The fore part 
and the hind part of a ves- 
sel, [or wall. 

StSck ade'. a strong inclosure ; 

Stub'ble fields. Fields from 
which gi-ain has recently 
been cut. 

Stiirti fy. To make a fool of. 

StU pend'otlS. Wonderful ; 
amazing. 

Suf f U§ed^ Overspread. 

SUmp'tU OUS. Costly ; luxurious. 

siin dry. Several ; various. 

Sll per nat U ral . Miraculous. 

sup po gt'tion . Something sup- 
posed, [ing ; mapping out. 

sur vey'ing (-vaing). view- 

SWainS. Young rustics. [land, 
sward . Turf ; grassy surface of the 
SWarth'y. Dusky ; tawny. 
Symp'tom. Sign; token, [sels. 
tSn'kards. Large drinking ves- 
tan'tal iz ing. Teasing, 
thatch. Straw covering the roof 

of a building, 
themes. Topics on which one 

writes or speaks. 
thSrpS. Small villages. 
thr8t'tling. Chokmg; strangling. 



206 



thyme (tim). a garden plant, 
tilt. A jousting with lances; a 

tournament. 
t81 er a'tion. Freedom. 

tSp'sail hSryards. Ropes for 

hoisting the topsail, or sail 
next above the lowermost 
sail on a mast. 
t8p'sy-turVy. Upside down. 

tour'na ment 

(toor'na mgnt). 

A mock fight between 
horsemen. [flax. 

tow cl8th. Cloth made of coarse 
trailed. Drawn ; dragged, 
trance. An unconscious condi- 
tion or state of being. 

tran scrib'ing. Copymg. 

trans port^ To carry ; to carry 

away with joy. 
trans port. Conveyance ; rapture, 
trgach'er OUS. Not to be trusted. 
tre men'douS. Dreadful ; awful, 
trem'll lous. Trembling, 
trim the yards. Arrange the 

vessel for sailing. [man. 
trOOp'er. Horseman ; cavalry- 
tu mtirtU OUS. Disorderly. 

u biq'ui tous (u bikVi tiis). 

In many places at the same 

time, 
um^brage. Resentment. 
U na nim'i ty. Agreement. 
Un bfased. Not prejudiced. 



un couth' (un kooth'). Awk- 

ward. [understood. 

un in terii gi ble. Can not be 

ti ni ver'sal. General. 

u'ni verse, ah created things. 

unsurpassed'. Having no supe- 
rior. 

U SUrp' (u Zllrp"). To seize by 
force ; without right. 

iit'termost. Greatest; farthest 
limit. 

ti'til ized. Made useful. 

Va'grantS. Wanderers ; beggars. 

variant. Brave. 

vapid. Having lost life and 
spirit. 

venl §0n. Flesh of the deer. 

vSr'sion. a translation; a de- 
scription from a particular 
point of view. 

VI Qinl ty. Neighborhood. 

vi'cious ness (vish'iis nSss). 

Wickedness. 

vict'uals (Vlf'lz). Food ; pro- 
visions. 

Vlg'or OUS. Strong ; healthy. 

vme'yards (vin'yerdz). 

Places where grapevines 

grow. 
Vir'tues. Good qualities, 
vig'ion a ry. imaginary, 
vol Ca'noes. Burning mountains. 

ward^er. a guard. 

wayVard ness. Willfulness. 



207 



whey (wha). The watery part 
of milk, separated from the 
curd in cheese making. 

vvhole'some (hol'sum). 

Healthful. 
^Vlck er. a twig or withe, used 
ill making baskets. 

wil'der ness. a wild tract of 

country ; desert. 

Windlass. Machine for raising 
weights by turning a crank. 

wTtch'craft. The art of witches. 
** Witching time of night " 
= time favorable for witch- 
ery. 



wTrties. Long, flexible twigs. 
Wizard. Magician; enchanter. 
WOe'ful. Wretched ; sad. 
wold. A wood ; a plain. 
WOod'bine. A climblni: plant. 
WOod'craft. Skill in anything 
connected with the woods. 

wres'tling (resling). strug- 
gling. 
yards (of a ship). The long, 

slender pieces which sup- 
port the sails. 

yearned. Desired very much. 

yeo'man. a freeholder; a farmer. 

yore. Long ago. 



PROPER NAMES PRONOUNCED. 



-^neas (ene'as). 

JEson (e'son). 

^sculapius (6s ku la'pl fis) . 

Andr6 (Su'dra). 

Arnpryor (arn'prlor). 

Aubrey de Montdidier (5 bra da 

mOntdedia'). 
Avilion (avil'yon). 

Ballengiech (bftl'enggk). 
Bedivere (b6d'Tv6r). 
Braehead (bra'hgd). 
Buchanan (biikan'an). 
Burgundy (bgr'gtindl). 

Caeneus (sg'ntis). 
Camelot (kSm'e lot). 



Cherokees (ch6rok6z'). 
Chiron (ki'ron). 
Coster (kSs'ter). 
Cramond (kra'mond). 
Cyclops (si'klSps). 

Dana (da'na). 
Dragon (drSg^on). 

Edinburgh (6d'Tn biirro). 
Elaine (6 Ian'). 
Excalibur (ekskailbiir). 

Finley (ftn'la). 
Floyd (floid). 
Fust (foost). 



208 



Grenoa (j6ii'o&). 
Glaucus (glft'kGs). 
Gutenberg (goo'tenbgrg). 

Haarlem (har'lem). 
Hercules (hSr'kulez). 
Herculaiieum (h5r ku Wn6 uin). 
Holyrood (hoi 'i rood) . 

Iliad (il'Iad). 
lolcus (i6l'kiis). 
Ithaca (ith'aka). 

Jaonssen (jaon'sen). 
Jason (ja'son). 
Jerusalem (je roo'saU m). 
Jupiter (joo'piter). 

Kentucky (k^ntuk'y). 
Kippen (kip'p6n). 

Lancelot (ISn'selot). 

Macaire (macS-r'). 

Mayence (mayons'). 

Missouri (misoo'ri). 

Monte Somma (mon'te sSm'ma) 

Montargis (montarzhg'). 

Naples (na'p'lz). 
Narsac (nars3,k'). 
Nassau (nSs'sa). 
Neptune (ngp'tun). 
Nydia (nid'ia). 

Odyssey (6d1ssy). 



Paris (pSrls). 
Pelias (pell 'as). 
Pelion (pe'lISn). 
Phlegethon (flgg'ethon). 
Pliny (plin'y). 
Polyphemus (pol y fe'mus) 
Pompeii (pompa'yg). 
Portugal (pOr'tugal). 
Provence (provons'). 

Roman (rC'mSn). 
Russia (rush'a). 

Saint Bavon (sant bav5n'). 
Shalott (shal6t'). 
Solon (so 'Ion). 
Spiizbergen (spits bgrg'en). 
Stabise (stSb'Ig). 
Strasburg (straz'bSrg). 
Syria (sir'Ia). 

Thames (t?mz). 
Thessaly (thgs'all). 

Ulysses (ulis's6z). 

Van Tassel (vintas^l). 
Venetian (vene'shan). 
Venice (v6n'Is). 
Vesuvius ( ve su'v! tis) . 

Wallace (w6Pas). 
Westminster (west'minster). 

Yadkin (yad'kin). 



> u 



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